^B    7Tb    12D 


GIFT   OF 
Mrs,   L,!.-!,   iiihrman 


UNFINISHED  PORTRAITS 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

KATE  WETHERILL 

A  PILLAR  OF  SALT 

THE  SON  OF  A  FIDDLER 

UNCLE  WILLLAM 

SIMEON  TETLOW'S  SHADOW 

HAPPY  ISLAND 

MR.  ACHILLES 

THE  TASTE  OF  APPLES 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  ALCOVE 

AUNT  JANE 

THE  mSEN  SECRET 

THE  SYMPHONY  PLAY 


The  great  picture  gathered  to  itself  shape,  and  glowed. 

[Page  253 


UNFINISHED  PORTRAITS 

STORIES  OF  MUSICIANS  AND  ARTISTS 


Br 
JENNETTE  LEE 


Schubert  Titian 

Chopin  Giorgione 

Bach  Leonardo 

Albrecht  Diirer 


NEfV  rORK:  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1916 


H  L3'?;?5 


Lf 


Copyright^  191 6,  hy  Charles  Scrihners  Sons 
Published  September,  19 16 


TO 
GERALD    STANLEY   LEE 

AND 

"the  great  road  that  leads 
from  the  seen  to  the  unseen  " 


CONTENTS 

There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

PAGE 
I 

Thumbs  and  Fugues 

29 

A  Window  of  Music 

79 

Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 

135 

The  Man  With  the  Glove 

151 

The  Lost  Monogram 

207 

tn     rrr^     rA 


^ 


THERE  WAS  IN  FLORENCE 

A  LADY 


^ ^ 


There  Was  in  Florence 
a  Lady 


1  HE  soft  wind  of  an  Italian  spring 
stirred  among  the  leaves  outside.  The 
windows  of  the  studio,  left  open  to  the 
morning  air,  were  carefully  shaded.  The 
scent  of  mulberry  blossoms  drifted  in. 
The  chair  on  the  model-stand,  adjusted 
to  catch  the  light,  was  screened  from  the 
glare;  and  the  light  falling  on  the  rich 
drapery  flung  across  its  back  brought  out 
a  dull  carmine  in  the  slender,  bell-shaped 
flowers  near  by,  and  dark  gleams  of  old 
oak  in  the  carved  chair.  The  chair  was 
empty;  but  the  two  men  in  the  studio  were 
facing  it,  as  if  a  presence  were  still  there. 
The    painter,    sketching    idly    on    the 

[3] 


aarn^ 


Unfinished  Portraits 


edge  of  his  drawing-board,  leaned  back 
to  survey  the  child's  head  that  developed 
under  his  pencil.  "'She  will  not  come  this 
morning,  then?''  he  asked  almost  in- 
differently. 

The  older  man  shook  his  head.  ''She 
said  not.  She  may  change  her  mind." 

The  painter  glanced  up  quickly.  He 
could  see  nothing  in  the  face  of  the  other, 
and  he  devoted  himself  anew  to  the 
child's  head.  "It  does  not  matter,''  he 
said.  '*I  can  work  on  the  background — 
if  I  feel  like  working  at  all,"  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  pause. 

The  older  man  stared  moodily  at  the 
floor.  He  flicked  a  pair  of  long  riding- 
gloves  lightly  through  his  fingers.  He 
glanced  toward  the  easel  standing  in  front 
of  the  painter,  a  little  to  the  left.  *'It  is 
barbarous  that  you  have  had  to  waste  so 
much  time!"  he  broke  out.  "How  long 

[4] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

is  it  ?  Two — no,  three  years  last  Christ- 
mas time  since  you  began.  And  there  it 
stands."  The  figure  on  the  easel,  erect, 
tranquil,  in  the  old  chair,  seemed  to  half 
shrug  its  shapely  shoulders  in  defense  of 
the  unfinished  face.  He  looked  at  it 
severely.  The  severity  changed  to  some- 
thing else.  "And  it  is  so  perfect — dam- 
nably perfect,"  he  said  irritably. 

The  artist  raised  his  eyebrows  the 
least  trifle.  A  movement  so  slight  might 
have  indicated  scrutiny  of  his  own  work. 
"You  are  off  for  the  day?"  he  asked, 
glancing  at  the  riding-whip  and  hat  on  a 
table  by  the  door. 

"Yes;  I  shall  run  up,  perhaps,  as  far 
as  Pistoia.  Going  to  see  the  new  altar- 
piece."  He  took  up  the  hat  and  whip. 
He  waited,  fingering  them  indecisively. 
"She  seems  to  me  more  fickle  than  ever, 
this  last  month  or  two." 

[s] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


'*I  see  that  she  is  restless."  The  painter 
spoke  in  a  low  tone,  half  hesitating.  "I 
have  wondered  whether — I  had  hoped 
that  the  Bambino" — he  touched  the  fig- 
ure lightly  with  his  foot — ''might  not  be 
needed." 

The  other  started.  He  stared  at  him  a 
full  minute.  His  eyes  fell.  "No,  no  such 
good  luck,"  he  said  brusquely.  "It  is  only 
caprice." 

The  draperies  near  him  parted.  A 
boyish  figure  appeared  in  the  opening. 
"Castino  wishes  me  to  say  that  the  mu- 
sicians wait,"  said  the  youth. 

The  painter  rose  and  came  toward  him, 
a  smile  of  pleasure  on  his  face.  "Tell  them 
that  there  will  be  no  sitting  to-day,  Salai," 
he  said,  laying  his  hand,  half  in  greeting, 
half  in  caress,  on  the  youth's  shoulder. 

"Yes,  Signor."  Salai  saluted  and  with- 
drew. 

[6] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

The  painter  turned  again  to  the  older 
man.  "It  was  a  happy  thought  of  yours, 
Zano — the  music.  She  deUghts  in  it.  I 
almost  caught,  one  day  last  week,  while 
they  were  playing,  that  curve  about  the 
lips." 

They  stood  for  a  moment  In  silence, 
looking  toward  the  portrait.  The  mem- 
ory of  a  haunting  smile  seemed  to  flicker 
across  the  shaded  light. 

"Well,  I  am  off."  The  man  held  out 
his  hand. 

The  artist  hesitated  a  second.  Then 
he  raised  the  hand  in  his  supple  fingers 
and  placed  it  to  his  lips.  "A  safe  jour- 
ney to  you,  Signor,"  he  said,  in  playful 
formality. 

"And  a  safe  return,  to  find  our  Lady 
Lisa  in  better  temper,"  laughed  the 
other.  The  laugh  passed  behind  the 
draperies. 

[7] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  artist  remained  standing,  his  eyes 
resting  absently  on  the  rich  colors  of 
the  Venetian  tapestry  through  which  his 
friend  had  disappeared.  His  face  was 
clouded  with  thought.  He  had  the  look 
of  a  man  absorbed  in  a  problem,  who  has 
come  upon  an  unexpected  complication. 

When  the  chess-board  is  a  Florentine 
palace,  and  the  pieces  are  fifteenth-cen- 
tury human  beings,  such  complications 
are  likely  to  occur.  The  Lady  Lisa  had 
more  than  once  given  evidence  that  she 
was  not  carved  of  wood  or  ivory.  But  for 
three  years  the  situation  had  remained 
the  same — the  husband  unobservant,  the 
lady  capricious  and  wilful.  She  had  shown 
the  artist  more  kindness  than  he  cared 
to  recall.  That  was  months  ago.  Of  late 
he  had  found  scant  favor  in  her  sight.  .  .  . 
It  was  better  so. 

He   crossed    to   the   easel,   and    stood 

[8] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

looking  down  at  it.  The  quiet  figure  on 
the  canvas  sent  back  a  thrill  of  pride 
and  dissatisfaction.  He  gazed  at  it  bitter- 
ly. Three  years — but  an  eternal  woman. 
Some  day  he  should  catch  the  secret  of 
her  smile  and  fix  it  there.  The  world 
would  not  forget  her — or  him.  He  should 
not  go  down  to  posterity  as  the  builder 
of  a  canal !  The  great  picture  at  the 
Dominicans  already  showed  signs  of  fad- 
ing. The  equestrian  statue  of  the  Duke 
was  crumbling  in  its  clay — no  one  to  pay 

for  the  casting.  But  this  picture For 

months — with  its  rippling  light  of  under 
sea,  its  soft  dreamy  background,  and  in 
the  foreground  the  mysterious  figure.  .  .  . 
All  was  finished  but  the  Child  upon  her 
arm,  the  smile  of  light  in  her  eyes. 

The  lady  had  flouted  the  idea.  It  was 
a  fancy  of  her  husband's,  to  paint  her 
as  Madonna.  She  had  refused  to  touch 

[9] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


the  Bambino  —  sometimes  petulantly, 
sometimes  in  silent  scorn.  The  tiny  fig- 
ure lay  always  on  the  studio  floor,  dusty 
and  disarranged.  The  artist  picked  it  up. 
It  was  an  absurd  little  wooden  face  in 
the  lace  cap.  He  straightened  the  velvet 
mantle  and  smoothed  the  crumpled  dress. 
He  stepped  to  the  model-stand  and 
placed  the  tiny  figure  in  the  draped 
chair.  It  rested  stifl3y  against  the  arm. 

A  light  laugh  caused  him  to  turn  his 
head.  He  was  kneeling  in  front  of  the 
Bambino. 

"I  see  that  you  have  supplied  my 
place.  Sir  Painter,"  said  a  mocking  voice. 

He  turned  quickly  and  faced  the  little 
doorway.  She  stood  there,  smiling,  scorn- 
ful, her  hands  full  of  some  delicate  flimsy 
stuff,  a  gold  thimble-cap  on  her  finger. 
^'It  would  not  make  a  bad  picture,''  she 
said  tranquilly,  "you  and  the  Bambino. 

[lO] 


J> 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 


His  face  lighted  up.  ''You  have  come  !" 
He  hastened  toward  her  with  outstretched 
hand. 

With  a  pretty  gesture  of  the  fragile 
sewing  she  ignored  the  hand.  "Yes,  I 
dared  not  trust  you.  You  might  paint 
in  the  Bambino  face  instead  of  mine,  by 
mistake." 

She  approached  the  chair  and  seated 
herself  carelessly.  The  Bambino  slipped 
meekly  through  the  arm  to  the  floor. 
Zano  told  me" — he  began. 
Yes,  I  know.  He  was  very  tiresome. 
I  thought  he  would  never  go.  I  really 
feared  that  we  might  quarrel.  It  is  too 
warm."  She  glanced  about  the  shaded 
room.  "You  manage  it  well,"  she  said 
approvingly.  "It  is  by  far  the  coolest 
place  in  the  palace." 

"You  will  be  going  to  the  mountains 
soon?"    He   saw  that   she   was   talking 

[II] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


lightly  to  cover  herself,  and  fell  in  with 
her  mood.  He  watched  her  as  he  ar- 
ranged the  easel  and  prepared  his  colors. 
Once  he  stopped  and  sketched  rapidly 
for  a  minute  on  the  small  drawing-board. 

She  looked  inquiry. 

''Only  an  eyebrow/'  he  explained. 

She  smiled  serenely.  "You  should  make 
a  collection  of  those  eyebrows.  They 
must  mount  into  the  hundreds  by  this 
time.  You  could  label  them  'Characters 
of  the  Lady  Lisa.'" 

"The  Souls  of  Lady  Lisa." 

The  lady  turned  her  head  aside.  "Your 
distinctions  are  too  subtle,"  she  said. 
Her  eye  fell  on  the  Bambino,  resting  dis- 
gracefully on  its  wooden  head.  "Poor 
little  figurine,"  she  murmured,  reaching  a 
slender  hand  to  draw  it  up.  She  straight- 
ened the  tumbled  finery  absently.  It 
slipped  to  her  lap,  and  lay  there.   Her 

[12] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

hands  were  idle,  her  eyes  looking  far  into 

space. 

* 

The  painter  worked  rapidly.  She  stirred 
slightly.  "Sit  still,"  he  said,  almost 
harshly. 

She  gave  a  quick,  startled  look.  She 
glanced  at  the  rigid  little  figure.  She 
raised  it  for  a  minute.  Her  face  grew  in- 
scrutable. Would  she  laugh  or  cry }  He 
worked  with  hasty,  snatched  glances. 
Such  a  moment  would  not  come  again. 
A  flitting  crash  startled  him  from  the 
canvas.  He  looked  up.  The  Bambino  lay 
in  a  pathetic  heap  on  the  floor,  scattered 
with  fragments  of  a  rare  Venetian  glass. 
She  sat  erect  and  imperious,  looking 
with  scorn  at  the  wreck.  Two  great  tears 
welled.  They  overflowed.  The  floods 
pressed  behind  them.  She  dropped  her 
face  in  her  hands.  Before  he  could  reach 
her  she  had  darted  from  the  chair.  The 

[13] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


mask  of  scorn  was  gone.  She  fled  from 
him,  from  herself,  bUndly,  stopping  only 
when  the  wall  of  the  studio  intervened. 
She  stood  with  her  face  buried  in  the  dra- 
pery, her  shoulders  wrenched  with  sobs. 

He  approached  her.  He  waited.  The 
Bambino  lay  with  its  wooden  face  star- 
ing at  the  ceiling.  It  was  a  crisis  for 
them  all.  The  next  move  would  deter- 
mine everything.  He  must  not  risk  too 
much,  again.  The  picture — art — hung 
on  her  sobs.  Lover — artist }  He  paused 
a  second  too  long. 

She  turned  toward  him  slowly,  serene- 
ly. Her  glance  fell  across  him,  level  and 
tranquil.  The  traces  of  ignored  tears  lay 
in  smiling  drops  on  her  face.  The  soft- 
ened scorn  played  across  it.  '^  Shall  we 
finish  the  sitting.^''  she  asked,  in  a  con- 
ventional voice. 

He  took  up  his  brush  uncertainly.  She 

[14] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

seated  herself,  gathering  up  the  scattered 
work.  For  a  few  moments  she  sewed 
rapidly.  Then  the  soft  fabric  fell  to  her 
lap.  She  sat  looking  before  her,  uncon- 
scious, except  that  her  glance  seemed  to 
rest  now  and  then  on  the  fallen  figure  in 
its  fragments  of  glass. 

For  two  hours  he  worked  feverishly, 
painting  with  swiftest  skill  and  power. 
At  times  he  caught  his  breath  at  the 
revelation  in  the  face.  He  was  too  alert 
to  be  human.  The  artist  forgot  the 
woman.  Faithfully,  line  by  line,  he  laid 
bare  her  heart.  She  sat  unmoved.  When 
at  last,  from  sheer  weariness,  the  brush 
dropped  from  his  hand,  she  stepped  from 
the  model-stand,  and  stood  at  his  side. 
She  looked  at  the  canvas  attentively. 
The  inscrutable  look  of  the  painted  face 
seemed  but  a  faint  reflex  of  the  living 
one. 

[is] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"You  have  succeeded  well,"  she  said 
at  last.  ''We  will  omit  the  Bambino." 

She  moved  slowly,  graciously,  toward 
the  door,  gathering  the  fragile  sewing  as 
she  went.  He  started  toward  her — sud- 
denly conscious  of  her  power — a  man 
again.  A  parting  of  the  draperies  arrested 
them.  It  was  Salai,  his  face  agitated,  look- 
ing from  the  lady  to  the  painter,  inartic- 
ulate. 

"The  Signor" — he  gasped — "his  horse 
— they  bring  him — dead." 

She  stirred  slightly  where  she  stood. 
Her  eyelids  fell.  "Go,  Salai.  Await  your 
master's  commands  in  the  hall  below." 

She  turned  to  the  painter  as  the  drap- 
eries closed.  "I  trust  that  you  will  make 
all  use  of  our  service,  Signor  Leonardo, 
in  removing  from  the  palace.  The  apart- 
ments will,  I  fear,  be  needed  for  relatives. 
They  will  come  to  honor  the  dead." 

[i6] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

He  stood  for  a  moment  stupefied, 
aghast  at  her  control  of  practical,  fem- 
inine detail;  then  moved  toward  her. 
"Lisa " 

She  motioned  toward  the  easel.  "Pay- 
ment for  the  picture  will  be  sent  you 
soon." 

"The  picture  goes  with  me.  It  is  not 
finished." 

"It  is  well."  She  bowed  mockingly. 
The  little  door  swung  noiselessly  behind 
her.  He  was  left  alone  with  the  portrait. 
It  was  looking  sideways  at  the  fallen 
Bambino  amid  the  shattered  fragments 
on  the  floor. 


[17] 


^"*^^^^"'^"—^"^^——^^——^——^  ****** 

II 

XT  was  the  French  monarch.  He  flut- 
tered restlessly  about  the  studio,  urbane, 
enthusiastic.  He  paused  to  finger  some 
ingenious  toy,  to  praise  some  drawing  or 
bit  of  sunht  color  that  caught  his  fancy. 
The  painter,  smiling  at  the  frank  enthu- 
siasm, followed  leisurely  from  room  to 
room.  The  wandering  Milanese  villa  was  a 
treasure  house.  Bits  of  marble  and  clay, 
curious  mechanical  contrivances,  winged 
creatures,  bats  and  creeping  things  min- 
gled with  the  canvases.  Color  and  line  ran 
riot  on  the  walls.  A  few  finished  pieces 
had  been  placed  on  easels,  in  convenient 
light,  for  the  royal  inspection.  Each  of 
these,  in  turn,  the  volatile  monarch  had 
exalted.  He  had  declared  that  everything 
in  the  villa,  including  the  gifted  owner, 
must  return  with  him  to  France. 

[i8] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

"That  is  the  place  for  men  Hke  you !" 
he  exclaimed,  standing  before  a  small, 
exquisitely  finished  Madonna.  "What 
do  these  Milanese  know  of  art  ?  Or  the 
Florentines,  for  that  matter  ?  Your  ^Last 
Supper' — I  saw  it  last  week.  It  is  a  blur. 
Would  that  the  sainted  Louis  might 
have  taken  it  bodily,  stone  by  stone,  to 
our  France,  as  he  longed  to  do.  You  will 
see;  the  mere  copy  has  more  honor  with 
us  than  the  original  here.  Come  with 
us,"  he  added  persuasively,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  painter's  shabby  sleeve. 

The  painter  looked  down  from  his 
height  on  the  royal  suitor.  "You  do  me 
too  much  honor,  sire.  I  am  an  old  man." 

"You  are  Leonardo  da  Vinci,"  said 
the  other  stoutly,  "the  painter  of  these 
pictures.  I  shall  carry  them  all  away, 
and  you  will  have  to  follow,"  laughed 
the  monarch.   "I   will  not  leave   one." 

[19] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


He  rummaged  gayly  in  the  unfinished 
debris,  bringing  out  with  each  turn  some 
new  theme  of  dehght. 

The  painter  stood  by,  waiting,  alert, 
a  trifle  uneasy,  it  might  seem.  "And 
now,  sire,  shall  we  see  the  view  from  the 
little  western  turret  ?" 

"One  moment.  Ah,  what  have  we 
here.f*"  He  turned  the  canvas  to  the 
light.  The  figure  against  the  quaint  land- 
scape looked  out  with  level,  smiling 
glance.  He  fell  upon  his  knees  before  it. 
"Ah,  marvellous,  marvellous!''  he  mur- 
mured in  naive  delight.  He  remained  long 
before  it,  absorbed,  forgetful.  At  last  he 
rose.  He  lifted  the  picture  and  placed  it 
on  an  easel.  "Is  she  yet  alive?"  he  de- 
manded, turning  to  the  painter. 

"She  lives  in  Florence,  sire." 

"And  her  name.?" 

."Signora  Lisa  della  Gioconda.' 

[20] 


>> 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 


''Her  husband  ?    It  matters  not. 

C(T\ 1    ^1 ^ ^, " 


>> 


Dead  these  ten  years.' 

"And  children?" 

"A  boy.  Born  shortly  after  the  hus- 
band's death/'  he  added,  after  a  slight 
pause.  "Shall  we  proceed  to  the  turret? 
The  light  changes  fast  at  sunset." 

/'Presently,  presently.  The  portrait 
must  be  mine.  The  original —  We  shall 
see — ^we  shall  see." 

"Nay,  your  Majesty,  the  portrait  is 
unfinished." 

"Unfinished?"  He  stared  at  it  anew. 
"Impossible.  It  is  perfect." 

"There  was  to  be  a  child." 

"Ah!"  The  monarch  gazed  at  it  in- 
tently for  many  minutes.  The  portrait 
returned  the  royal  look  in  kind.  He 
broke  into  a  light  laugh.  "You  did  well 
to  omit  the  child,"  he  said.  "Come,  we 
will   see   the   famous   sunset   now."   He 

[21] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


turned  to  the  regal  figure  on  the  easel. 
"Adieu,  Mona  Lisa.  I  come  for  you 
again."  He  kissed  his  fingers  with  airy 
grace.  He  fluttered  out.  The  mocking, 
sidelong  glance  followed  him. 


[22] 


Ill 


Ti 


HE  western  sun  filled  the  room.  On 
a  couch  drawn  near  the  low  French  win- 
dow lay  the  painter.  His  eyes  looked 
across  the  valley  to  a  long  line  of  pop- 
lars, silver  in  the  wind.  Like  a  strange 
processional,  up  the  hill,  they  held  him. 
They  came  from  Lombardy.  In  the 
brasier,  across  the  room,  burned  a  flick- 
ering fire.  Even  on  the  warmest  days  he 
shivered  for  sunnier  skies.  Above  the  fire 
hung  a  picture — a  woman  seated  in  a 
rock-bound  circle,  looking  tranquilly  out 
upon  the  world  of  life. 

The  painter  touched  a  silver  bell  that 
stood  on  a  table  at  hand.  A  figure  en- 
tered. It  crossed  to  the  window.  The  face 
was  turned  in  shadow.  It  waited. 

"Has  our  good  physician  gone,  Fran- 
cesco?" asked  the  painter. 

[23] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Francesco  bowed.  There  was  silence  in 
the  room  except  for  the  fire. 

"What  does  he  say  of  us  to-day  V* 

The  youth  brushed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes  impatiently.  **He  always  croaks. 
He  is  never  hopeful."  He  approached  the 
couch  and  knelt  by  it,  his  face  in  the 
shadow  still. 

The  painter  lay  tranquil,  watching  the 
poplars.  "Why  grieve?  An  exile  has  not 
so  many  joys  that  he  need  fear  to  lose 
them,  Francesco." 

The  younger  man  made  no  reply.  He 
was  adjusting  the  pillows.  He  slipped  a 
fresh  one  beneath  the  long  white  hair. 
The  locks  strayed  in  a  dull  silvery  glim- 
mer over  it. 

"Ah,  that  is  good,"  murmured  the  old 
man.  "Your  hand  is  like  a  woman's.  I 
have  not  known  many  women,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause.  ..."  But  I  have  not  been 

[24] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

^ .  I       J    .     J  ■■  I      III  .!■         II  II    M    -l^^l^^l     MUBII  I  !■■!  mil  I--'  ■ ■ ■     --'- 

lonely.  Friends  are  faithful'' — he  pressed 
the  youth's  warm  hand.  "His  Majesty  ?" 
— the  voice  ended  with  a  question. 

"No,  master.  But  there  is  yet  time. 
He  often  comes  at  sunset.  See  how  bright 
it  grows." 

The  painter  turned  his  head.  He  looked 
long.  "Tell  us  what  the  wise  physician 
said,  Francesco.  Will  it  be  soon?" 

"Nay,  master,  I  know  not.  He  said  if 
you  have  any  wishes " 

"Ah,  yes."  He  lay  musing,  his  eyes 
looking  across  the  room.  "There  will  be 
few  bequests.  My  pictures — they  are 
mine  no  longer.  Should  a  painter  barter 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  his  soul  ?  .  .  . 
Gold  cannot  buy.  .  .  .  They  are  mine. 
.  .  .  Four  thousand  shining  gold  pieces 
Francis  put  into  my  hand.  He  took  away 
the  Lisa.  He  would  not  be  refused.  But 
I  followed.  I  could  not  live  without  her. 

[25] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


When  a  man  is  old,  Francesco,  his  hand 
trembles.  He  must  see  something  he  has 
done,  something  perfect.  ..."  He  lay- 
looking  long  at  the  portrait.  ''And  yet 
it  is  not  finished.  .  .  .  There  was  to  be 
the  child."  He  smiled  dreamily.  ''Poor 
Bambino."  His  eyes  rested  again  on  the 
portrait.  .  .  .  He  smiled  back  upon  it. 

Yes,    you    will    live,"    he    said    softly. 

Francis  will  have  you.  You  scorned  him. 
But  he  was  generous.  He  gave  you  back 
to  me.  You  will  be  his — his  and  his  chil- 
dren's. I  have  no  child At  least  .  .  . 

Ah,  well— Francis  will  have  you.  Leda  and 
Pomona  will  pass.  The  Dominican  pic- 
ture ...  all  but  gone.  The  hand  of  time 
has  rested  on  my  work.  Crumbling — fad- 
ing— nothing  finished.  I  planned  so  much. 
Life  runs,  Francesco,  while  one  sits  and 
thinks.  Nothing  finished.  My  manuscripts 
— do  with  them  what  you  will.  I  could 

[26] 


There  Was  in  Florence  a  Lady 

not  even  write  like  other  men — this 
poor  left  hand."  He  lifted  the  filmy  lace 
ruffle  falling  across  his  hand.  He  smiled 
ironically  at  the  costly  folds,  as  they 
fluttered  from  his  fingers.  "A  man  is 
poor  who  has  few  wants.  Then  I  have 
not  been  poor.  But  there  is  nothing 
left.  It  will  be  an  empty  name." 

Silence  fell  between  them. 

"There  is  in  Florence  a  lady.  You 
must  seek  for  her,  Francesco.  She  is  rich 
and  beautiful.  She  did  me  once  a  kind- 
ness. I  should  like  her — this  ring — "  He 
slipped  it  from  his  finger — a  heavy  stone, 
deep  green,  with  translucent  lights.  "It 
was  my  father's  crest.  He  gave  it  to  my 
mother — not  his  wife — a  woman — faith- 
ful. She  put  it  on  my  finger  when  she 
died — a  peasant  woman.  Tell  the  lady 
when  you  give  it  her  .  ,  .  she  has  a  son. 
.  .  .  Tell  her  ..."  The  voice  fell  hushed. 

[27] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  young  man  waited,  with  bowed 
head.  He  looked  up.  He  started  quickly, 
and  leaned  his  ear  to  listen.  Then  he 
folded  the  hands  across  the  quiet  breast. 
He  passed  swiftly  from  the  silent  cham- 
ber, down  to  the  courtyard,  out  on  the 
King's  highway,  mounted  and  fleet. 

The  French  King  was  riding  merrily. 
He  carolled  a  gay  chanson.  His  retinue 
followed  at  a  distance.  Francesco  Melzi 
saluted  and  drew  rein.  He  spoke  a  word 
in  the  monarch's  ear.  The  two  men  stood 
with  uncovered  heads.  They  looked  to- 
ward the  western  windows.  The  gay  cav- 
alcade halted  in  the  glow  of  light.  A  hush 
fell  on  their  chatter.  The  windows  flamed 
in  the  crimson  flood.  Within  the  room, 
above  the  gleaming  coals,  a  woman  of 
eternal  youth  looked  down  with  tranquil 
gaze  upon  an  old  man's  face. 


[28] 


in      fjp^     nft 


THUMBS  AND  FUGUES 


i 


ffi^     rfT^     <^ 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


Ready,  father— ready!"  shouted 
the  small  boy.  He  was  standing  on  the 
top  step  of  a  flight  of  stairs  leading  to 
the  organ-loft  of  the  Hofchapel,  peering 
in.  His  round,  stolid  face  and  short, 
square  legs  gave  no  hint  of  the  excite- 
ment that  piped  in  his  shrill  voice. 

The  man  at  the  organ  looked  leisurely 
around,  nodding  his  big  head  and  smil- 
ing. "Ja,  ja,  S'bastian — ^ja,"  he  said 
placidly.  His  fingers  played  slowly  on. 

The  boy  mounted  the  steps  to  the 
organ  and  rubbed  his  cheek  softly  against 
the  coat  sleeve  that  reached  out  to  the 
keys.  The  man  smiled  again  a  big,  float- 
ing smile,  and  his  hands  came  to  rest. 

[31] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  boy  looked  up  wistfully.  "They'll 
all  get  there  before  we  do,"  he  said  quickly. 
"Come!" 

The  man  looked  down  absently  and 
kindly.  "Nein,  S'bastian."  He  patted 
the  round  head  beside  him.  "There  is  no 
need  that  we  should  hurry." 

They  passed  out  of  the  chapel,  across 
the  courtyard  and  into  the  open  road. 
For  half  an  hour  they  trudged  on  in 
silence,  their  broad  backs  swinging  from 
side  to  side  in  the  morning  light.  Across 
the  man's  back  was  slung  a  large  violin, 
in  its  bag;  and  across  the  back  of  the 
boy  hung  a  violin  like  that  of  the  father, 
only  shorter  and  fatter  and  squarer,  and 
on  his  head  was  a  huge  woollen  cap.  He 
took  it  off  and  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  white  forehead. 

The  man  looked  down  at  him  once 
more  and  halted.  "Now,  but  we  will  rest 

[32] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


here/'  he  said  gently.  He  removed  the 
vioHn-bag  carefully  from  his  back  and 
threw  himself  on  the  ground  and  took 
from  his  pocket  a  great  pipe. 

With  a  little  sigh  the  boy  sat  down 
beside  him. 

The  man  nodded  good-naturedly. 
"Ja,  that  is  right."  He  blew  a  puff  of 
smoke  toward  the  morning  clouds;  "the 
Bachs  do  not  hurry,  my  child — no  more 
does  the  sun." 

The  boy  smiled  proudly.  He  looked  up 
toward  the  ball  of  fire  sailing  above  them 
and  a  change  came  over  his  face.  "We 
might  miss  the  choral,"  he  said  wist- 
fully. "They  won't  wait,  will  they  ?" 

The  big  man  shook  his  head.  "We  shall 
not  be  late.  There  is  my  clock."  He 
nodded  toward  the  golden  sun.  "And  I 
have  yet  another  here,"  he  added,  placing 
a  comfortable  hand  on  his  big  stomach. 

[33] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  boy  laughed  softly  and  lay  quiet. 

The  man  opened  his  lips  and  blew  a 
wreath  of  smoke. 

"There  will  be  more  than  a  hun- 
dred Bachs,"  he  said  slowly,  "and  you 
must  play  what  I  have  taught  you — 
not  too  slow  and  not  too  fast."  He 
looked  down  at  the  boy's  fat  fingers. 
"Play  like  a  true  Bach  and  no  other," 
he  added. 

The  boy  nodded.  "Will  Uncle  Chris- 
toph  be  there  .f*"  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"Ja." 

"And  Uncle  Helnrich?" 

"Ja,ja!" 

The  boy  gave  a  quick  sigh  of  con- 
tentment. 

His  father  was  looking  at  him  shrewdly. 
"But  it  is  not  Uncle  Heinrich  that  will 
be  making  a  player  of  you,  and  it  is 
not  Uncle  Christoph.  It  is  only  Johann 

[34] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


Sebastian  Bach  that  can  make  himself 
a  player,"  he  said  sternly. 

"Yes,  father,"  replied  the  boy  ab- 
sently. His  eyes  were  following  the 
clouds. 

The  man  blew  great  puffs  of  smoke 
toward  them.  "It  is  more  than  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  years  ago  that  we  came 
from  Hungary,"  he  said  proudly. 

The  boy  nestled  toward  him.  "Tell 
me  about  it."  He  had  heard  the  story 
many  times. 

"Ja>  ja,"  said  the  man  musingly.  .  .  . 
"He  was  my  great-grandfather,  that 
man — Veit  Bach — and  your  great-great- 
grandfather." 

The  boy  nodded. 

"And  he  was  a  miller " 


He  dropped  into  silence,  and  a  little 
brook  that  ran  over  the  stones  near  by 
babbled  as  it  went. 

[35] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  boy  raised  his  eyes.  **And  he  had 
a  lute,"  he  prompted  softly. 

"Ja,  he  had  a  lute — and  while  the 
mill-wheel  turned,  he  played  the  lute — 
sweet,  true  notes  and  tunes  he  played — 
in  that  old  mill." 

The  boy  smiled  contentedly. 

"And  now  we  be  a  hundred  Bachs. 
We  make  music  for  all  Germany.  Come  !" 
He  sprang  to  his  feet.  *'We  will  go  to 
the  festival,  the  great  Bach  festival. 
You,  my  little  son,  shall  play  like  a  true 
Bach." 

As  they  walked  along  the  road  he 
hummed  contentedly  to  himself,  speak- 
ing now  and  then  a  word  to  the  boy. 
"What  makes  one  Bach  great,  makes 
all.  Remember,  my  child,  Reinken  is 
great — but  he  is  only  one;  and  Bohm 
and  Buxtehude,  Pachelbel.  But  we  are 
many — all  Bachs — all  great."  He  hummed 

[36  ] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


gayly  a  few  bars  of  the  choral  and 
stopped,  Hstening. 

The  boy  turned  his  face  back  over  the 
road.  ''They  are  coming,"  he  said  softly. 

*'Ja,  they  are  coming." 

The  next  moment  a  heavy  cart  came 
in  sight.  It  was  laden  to  the  brim  with 
Bachs  and  music;  some  laughing  and  some 
singing  and  some  playing — on  fiddles  or 
flutes  or  horns — beaming  with  broad 
faces. 

The  man  caught  up  Sebastian  by  the 
arm  and  jumped  on  to  the  tail-board  of 
the  cart.  And  thus — enveloped  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  surrounded  by  the  laughter  of 
fun-loving  men  and  youths — the  boy  came 
into  Erfurt,  to  the  great  festival  of  all 
the  Bachs. 


[37] 


II 

OH-H !  It  is  Heinrich !  Listen  to  him 
— to  Heinrich!"  There  were  nods  and 
smiles  and  soft  thudding  of  mugs,  and 
turning  of  broad  faces  toward  the  other 
end  of  the  enclosure,  as  a  small  figure 
mounted  the  platform. 

He  was  a  tiny  man,  unlike  the  others; 
but  he  carried  himself  with  a  gentle 
pomposity,  and  he  faced  the  gathering 
with  a  proud  gesture,  holding  up  his  hand 
to  enjoin  silence.  After  a  few  muttering 
rumbles  they  subsided. 

Sebastian,  sitting  between  his  father 
and  a  fat  Bach,  gulped  with  joy.  It  was 
the  great  Heinrich — who  composed  cho- 
rals and  fugues  and  gavottes  and — hush ! 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  rebuking  the 
Bachs — the  great  Bachs  !  .  .  .  Sebastian's 
ears  cracked  with  the  strain.  He  looked 

[38] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


helplessly  at  his  father,  who  sat  smiling 
into  his  empty  beer-mug,  and  at  the  fat 
Bach  on  the  other  side,  who  was  gaping 
with  open  mouth  at  the  great  Heinrich. 

Sebastian  looked  back  to  the  platform. 

Heinrich's  finger  was  uplifted  at  them 
sternly.  ...  "It  was  Reinken  who  said 
it.  He  of  the  Katherinenkirche  has  said 
it,  in  open  festival,  that  there  is  not  a 
Bach  in  Germany  that  can  play  as  he 
can  play.  Do  you  hear  that!"  The  little 
man  stamped  impatiently  with  his  foot 
on  the  platform.  "He  has  called  us  flut- 
ists and  lutists  and  'cellists — "  He 
stopped  and  held  up  a  small  instrument 
that  he  carried  in  his  hand — "Do  you 
know  what  this  is  ?*' 

A  response  of  grunts  and  cheers  came 
from  the  crowd. 

Sebastian  stretched  his  neck  to  see.  It 
was  a  kind  of  viol,  small  and  battered 

[39] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


and  torn.  Worn  ribbons  fluttered  from 
the  handle. 

The  small  man  on  the  platform  lifted 
it  reverently  to  his  chin.  He  ran  his 
fingers  lightly  along  the  broken  strings. 
"You  know  the  man  who  played  it,"  he 
said  significantly,  "old  Veit  Bach — " 
Cheers  broke  from  the  crowd.  He  stopped 
them  sternly.  "Do  you  think  if  he  were 
alive — if  Veit  Bach  were  alive,  would 
Reinken,  of  Hamburg,  dare  challenge  him 
in  open  festival  ?" 

Cries  of  "Nein,  nein!"  and  "Ja,  ja!'* 
came  back  from  the  benches. 

"Ja,  ja!  Nein,  nein!"  snarled  back 
the  little  man.  "You  know  that  he  would 
not.  He  had  only  this — "  He  held  up 
the  lute  again.  "Only  this  and  his  mill. 
But  he  made  the  greatest  music  of  his 
time.  While  you — thirty  of  you  this  day 
at  the  best  organs  in  Germany.  .  .  .  And 

[40] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


Reinken  defies  you.  .  .  .  Reinken!"  His 
lighted  eye  ran  along  the  crowd.  "Be- 
fore the  next  festival,  shall  there  be  one 
who  will  meet  him?"  There  was  no 
response.  The  Bachs  looked  into  their 
beer-mugs.  The  great  Heinrich  swept 
them  with  his  eagle  glance.  "Is  there 
not  one/*  he  went  on  slowly,  "who  dares 
promise,  in  the  presence  of  the  Bachs 
that  before  Reinken  dies  he  will  meet 
him  and  outplay  him  ?*' 

The  Bachs  were  silent.  They  knew 
Reinken. 

Sebastian,  wedged  between  his  father 
and  the  fat  Bach,  gulped  mightily.  He 
struggled  to  get  to  his  feet.  But  a  hand 
at  his  coat-tails  held  him  fast.  He  looked 
up  imploringly  into  his  father's  face — but 
the  hand  at  his  coat-tails  restrained  him. 
"I  will  promise,"  he  whispered,  "I  want 
to  promise." 

Ui] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Ja,  ja,  little  son,"  whispered  the  fa- 
ther; and  he  and  the  fat  Bach  exchanged 
smiles  across  the  round  head. 

Heinrich's  glance  swept  the  crowd 
once  more.  .  .  .  "You  will  not  promise? 
Then  let  me  tell  you — "  He  raised  his 
small  hand  impressively. 

''There  shall  come  of  the  Bachs  one  so 
great  that  all  others  shall  fade.  He  only 
shall  be  known  as  Bach — he  and  his  sons; 
and  before  him  the  name  of  Reinken 
shall  be  as  dust !"  With  a  hiss  upon  the 
last  word,  he  threw  open  his  arms. 
"Come!"  he  said,  "take  your  instrument 
and  play." 

Then  fell  upon  the  assembly  a  series 
of  squeaks  and  gruntings  and  tunings 
and  twinges  and  groans  and  wails  such 
as  was  never  heard  outside  a  Bach  fes- 
tival. And  little  Sebastian,  tugging  at 
his    violin,    tuned    and    squeaked    and 

[42] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


grunted  with  the  rest,  oblivious  to  the 
taps  that  fell  on  his  small  head  from 
surrounding  bows.  And  when  at  last  the 
tuning  was  done  and  there  burst  forth 
the  wonderful  new  melody  of  the  choral, 
Sebastian's  heart  went  dizzy  with  the 
joy  of  it.  And  Uncle  Heinrich  on  the 
platform,  strutting  proudly  back  and 
forth,  conducting  the  choral — his  own 
choral — forgot  his  anger  and  forgot 
Reinken,  and  forgot  everything  except 
the  Bachs  playing  there  before  him — 
playing  as  only  the  Bachs,  the  united 
Bachs,  could  play — in  all  Germany  or  in 
all  the  world. 


[43] 


III 


Ti 


HE  two  boys  had  come  to  a  turn  in 
the  road,  and  stood  looking  back  over 
the  way  they  had  come.  The  younger 
of  the  two  looked  up  wistfully  to  the 
cherry-blossomed  trees  overhead.  "It 
is  hot,  Sebastian! — Let  us  rest." 

With  a  smile  the  other  boy  threw  him- 
self on  the  grass.  The  large,  flat  book  that 
he  carried  under  his  arm  fell  to  the 
ground  beside  him,  and  his  hand  stole 
out  and  touched  it.  He  had  a  wide, 
quiet  face,  with  blue  eyes  and  a  short 
nose,  and  lips  that  smiled  dreamily  to 
themselves.  As  he  lay  looking  up  into 
the  white  blossoms  that  swayed  and 
waited  against  the  clear  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  lips  curved  in  gentle  content. 

His  companion,  who  had  thrown  him- 
self on  the  cool  grass  beside  him,  watched 

[44] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


him  admiringly.  His  glance  shifted  and 
rested  on  the  book  that  lay  on  the  grass. 
''What  is  it  ? — What  is  it,  Sebastian  ?"  he 
asked  timidly.  He  put  out  an  inquisi- 
tive finger  toward  the  book. 

Sebastian  turned  it  quietly  aside.  ''Let 
be,"  he  said. 

The  boy  flushed.  "I  was  not  going  to 
touch  it." 

The  other  smiled,  with  his  slow,  gener- 
ous eyes  fixed  on  the  boy's  face.  "Thou 
art  a  good  boy,  Erdman!"  ...  "It 
is  only  thy  fingers  that  itch  to  know 
things."  He  patted  them  gently,  where 
they  lay  on  the  grass  beside  him. 

Erdman  was  still  looking  at  the  book. 
"Was  it  your  brother's?"  he  asked  in  a 
half  whisper. 

"Christoph's  ?"  Sebastian  shook  his 
head.  "No,  it  is  mine — my  own." 

The  soft  wind  was  among  the  blossoms 

1 45] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


overhead — they  fell  in  petals,  one  by  one, 
upon  the  quiet  figures. 

''Want  to  know  'bout  it?"  asked  Se- 
bastian, half  turning  to  meet  his  com- 
panion's eye. 

The  boy  nodded. 

"It's  mine.  I  copied  it,  every  note — 
six  months  it  took  me — from  Christoph's 
book." 

"Did  he  let  you?" 

Sebastian  shook  his  head,  a  grim,  sweet 
smile  curving  the  big  mouth.  "Let  me  ? — 
Christoph!" 

The  boy  crept  nearer  to  him.  "How 
did  you  do  it  ?" 

"I  stole  it — carried  it  up  to  my  room 
while  the  others  were  asleep — and  did  it 
by  the  moon." 

"The  moon?" 

The  boy  nodded,  laughing.  "Didst 
never  hear  of  the  moon,  brave  boy! 

[46] 


j> 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


Erdman  smiled  pettishly.  '*  There  isn't 
a  moon — always,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

"And  that  also  is  true,"  quoth  the 
boy  gravely.  *'But  some  time,  late  or 
early,  one  gets  a  glimpse  of  her — if  one 
lies  awake  to  see,"  he  added  softly. 

The  other  glanced  again  at  the  book. 
"Let  me  look  at  it,"  he  pleaded. 

Sebastian  smiled  and  reached  over  a 
hand  to  the  book.  "Don't  touch.  I'll 
show  it  thee."  He  untied  the  strings  and 
spread  it  on  the  ground,  throwing  him- 
self in  front  of  it  and  resting  his  chin  in 
his  hands.  "Come,"  he  said,  "I'll  show 
it  thee." 

Erdman  threw  off  his  heavy  cap  and 
bent  toward  the  book,  with  a  little  ges- 
ture of  wonder.  "I  heard  about  Chris- 
toph's  book — a  good  many  times,"  he  said 
softly.  ...  "I  didn't  ever  think  I'd  see 

[47] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


it.'*  He  reached  out  his  hand  and  touched 
the  open  page. 

"Nobody  ever  saw  It,"  said  Sebastian 
absently.  He  was  humming  to  himself. 
''Listen  to  this!"  he  said  eagerly.  He 
hummed  a  few  bars.  ''That's  Buxte- 
hude's — isn't  it  great!"  His  face  went 
tumpty-tumpty  with  the  notes,  and  the 
blue  eyes  shone.  "But  this  is  the  one  I 
like  best — Hsten!"  He  turned  over  the 
pages  rapidly.  "Here  it  is.  This  is  Rein- 
ken's.  'By  the  waters  of  Babylon,  by  the 
waters,  by  the  waters  of  Babylon.'"  He 
hummed  the  tune  below  his  breath — and 
then  louder  and  fuller.  .  .  .  The  clear, 
sweet  soprano  of  the  notes  died  away 
softly.  "Some  day  I  shall  play  it,"  said 
Sebastian  lingeringly.  "Some  day.  See — 
here  is  the  place  for  the  harps!  And  here 
are  the  great  horns.  Listen!"  His  voice 
droned  away  at  the  bass  and  ran  into 

[48] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


the  swift  high  notes  of  the  treble.  "  Some 
day  I  shall  play  it/'  he  repeated  wistfully. 

Erdman's  slow  gaze  was  following  the 
page.  "I  can't  read  so  fast/'  he  said  en- 
viously. 

Sebastian  smiled  back.  *'I  know  it  by 
heart — almost.  When  the  moon  was  be- 
hind the  clouds  I  waited.  I  sang  them 
over  and  over." 

"Very  softly/'  said  Erdman,  as  if  see- 
ing the  picture  of  the  boy  and  the  dark- 
ened room. 

''Very  softly/'  assented  Sebastian,  ''so 
that  no  one  should  hear.  And  now  I  have 
them  all!"  He  spoke  exultingly.  "And 
next  month  I  shall  see  Reinken.  ...  I 
shall  hear  him  play!" 

The  other  stared  at  him.  "But  Rein- 
ken  is  at  Hamburg/'  he  said  at  last. 

"And  that,  too,  is  so,"  said  Sebastian 
smiling. 

I49] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"And  we  go  to  Liineburg '' 

"And  we  go  to  Liineburg!"  repeated 
the  boy,  with  a  mocking  Hit  in  his  voice. 
"And  Liineburg  is  twenty  miles  from 
Hamburg.  Hadst  thought  of  that!"  He 
laughed  exultingly. 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,"  he  said. 

Sebastian  was  fastening  the  big  violin 
in  place  on  his  back.  He  looked  up  under 
smiling  brows,  as  he  bent  to  draw  the 
last  strap.  Then  he  touched  his  sturdy 
legs  with  his  hand  and  laughed.  "I  mean 
that  these  are  the  horses  to  carry  me  to 
Hamburg  and  back  many  times.  I  shall 
hear  the  great  Reinken  play! — And  I,  too, 
shall  play!"  he  added  proudly. 

"Do  you  never  doubt,  Sebastian.?" 
asked  the  other  thoughtfully,  as  they 
moved  on. 

"Doubt.?" 

[so] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


"Whether  you  will  be  a  great  musi- 
cian ?  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  see  myself  going 
back — "  He  paused  as  if  ashamed  to 
have  said  so  much. 

Sebastian  shook  his  head.  His  blue 
eyes  were  following  the  clouds  in  the 
spring  day.  '*  Sometimes  I  doubt  whether 
I  am  among  the  elect,"  he  said  slowly. 
"But  never  that  I  am  to  be  a  musician." 
His  full  lips  puckered  dreamily,  and  his 
golden  head  nodded,  keeping  slow  time. 
"By  the  waters — "  he  broke  out  into 
singing.  "Is  it  not  wunderschon!  "  The 
blue  eyes  turned  with  a  smile.  "It  is 
wunderschon  !  Ach — wunderschon  !  Is  it 
not,  Erdman?"  He  seemed  to  awake 
and  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  the 
boy's  shoulder. 

The  other  nodded.  "Yes,  it  is  schon," 
he  said  wistfully. 

"Come,  I  will  teach  it  to  thee!" 

[51] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


And  the  notes  of  Reinken's  choral, 
**An  den  Wasserfliissen  Babylon,"  floated 
with  a  clear,  fresh  sound  on  the  spring 
morning  air,  two  hundred  years  ago,  and 
more,  as  two  charity  pupils  walked  along 
the  road  to  Liineburg. 


[52] 


IV 


A 


TALL  man  with  keen  eyes  and  a 
round  stomach  stood  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Johanneskirche,  lost  in  thought  and 
humming  to  himself.  Now  and  then  he 
took  off  his  glasses  and  rubbed  them 
vigorously,  and  put  them  on  again  to 
peer  absently  down  the  street. 

A  heavy  figure,  clad  in  the  faded  blue 
uniform  of  the  Michaelsschule,  rounded 
the  corner,  puffing  heavily. 

"Ach,  Kerlman  !"  The  tall  man  started 
forward  with  a  stride.  "You  are  late." 

The  other  nodded  imperturbably. 

"Ja,  I  am  late.  Those  boys — I  can- 
not make  to  hurry.*'  He  spoke  as  if  as- 
signing sufficient  reason  and  wiped  his 
brow. 

A  twinkle  came  into  the  keen  eyes. 
''And  one  of  them  you  have  lost  to-day," 

1 53] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


he  said  dryly.  He  cocked  his  eye  a  trifle 
toward  the  heavy  church  that  rose  be- 
hind them. 

The  other  looked  quickly  around. 

"That  S'bastian — was  he  here.?"  he 
demanded. 

"In  there,"  replied  the  tall  man,  smil- 
ing. "No,  no!"  he  laid  his  hand  on  his 
companion's  arm  as  he  started  forward. 
"Let  be — let  be!  .  .  .  We  must  help  him 
— that  boy.  You  have  not  heard  him  play 
my  organ.  Wait!"  He  held  up  his 
hand.  .  .  .  Music  was  stealing  from  the 
gloomy  shadows  of  the  church. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  master.  He  pushed 
open  a  low  door  and  they  entered  the 
great  church.  Far  up  in  the  loft,  struck 
by  a  shaft  of  light  from  a  gable  in  the 
roof,  the  boy  was  sitting,  absorbed  in 
sound.  His  face  was  bent  to  the  keys  as 
his  hands  hovered  and  paused  over  them 

[54] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


and  drew  forth  the  strangely  sweet  sounds 
that  filled  the  great  building. 

The  two  musicians  below  stood  looking 
up,  their  big  heads  nodding  time.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  they  paused  and  looked  at  each 
other  with  questioning  glance.  The  music 
was  quickening  and  broadening  with  a 
clear,  glad  reach  of  sound,  and  under- 
neath it  ran  a  swiftly  echoing  touch  that 
bound  the  notes  together  and  vibrated 
through  them. 

"How  was  he  doing  that  V^  whispered 
the  small  man  excitedly.  "You  have 
taught  him  that  ?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"Come,  we  will  see." 

Together  they  tiptoed  through  the 
dark  church,  softly — up  to  the  organ-loft 
and  peered  in.  The  boy,  oblivious  to 
sight  and  sound,  played  on. 

Kerlman  leaned  far  forward,  craning 


Unfinished  Portraits 


his  neck.  He  drew  back,  a  look  of  stupe- 
faction in  his  face.  He  held  up  his  large 
thumb  and  looked  at  it  soberly. 

'*  What  is  it  ?''  whispered  the  other. 

"You  see,  Johannes  Bohm  V^  He  shook 
the  fat  thumb  in  his  companion's  face. 
*'He  does  it  with  that !" 

The  master  peered  forward,  incred- 
ulous. Slowly  he  crept  up  behind  the  boy, 
his  eyes  fastened  on  the  moving  hands. 
His  shadow  fell  on  the  keys  and  the  boy 
looked  up.  His  face  lighted  with  a  smile. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  master  sternly.  His 
eyes  still  watched  the  hands.  Slowly  his 
big  fingers  reached  over  and  grasped  the 
thumb  as  it  pressed  lightly  on  a  key. 
"Who  told  you  that?"  he  demanded. 

The  boy  looked  down  at  it,  puzzled. 
Then  his  face  grew  a  little  ashamed  and 
doubtful.  "It  is  wrong,  I  know,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "Yes,  it  is  wrong." 

[S6] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


Who  taught  you  ?" 
Nay,  no  one  would  teach  It.  I  just 
happened — one  day.  It  makes  it  so  easy." 
"Yes,  I  see."  The  master's  voice  was 


curt. 


I  will  never  do  it  again,"  said  the 
boy  humbly. 

"No — you  might  play  it  for  me  once — 
just  once,  for  me,"  said  the  master. 

The  boy's  hands  ran  lovingly  to  the 
keys.  They  crept  along  the  maze  of  sound 
and  rose  and  fell  in  the  changing  rhythm. 
Shyly  the  small  thumb  darted  out  and 
found  its  key,  and  filled  the  great  church 
with  the  tremulous,  haunting  call  of  note 
answering  note. 

The  master  bending  over  the  keys 
wiped  his  brow  and  looked  at  the  boy 
proudly,  with  a  little  wonder  in  his  face. 
"Good.  .  .  .  Ach — but  good,  good!"  he 
murmured  softly. 

[57] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


(C 


The  boy  looked  up  quickly.  His  clear 
skin  flushed.  "May  I  use  it — some- 
times .f*"  he  asked,  doubting. 

Bohm  gave  a  sharp,  generous  laugh. 
You  may  use  it.''  He  laughed  again. 
All  the  world  will  use  it!"  he  said,  pat- 
ting him  on  the  back.  "It  is  a  great  dis- 
covery. Play  more." 

The  boy  turned  obediently  to  the 
keys,  and  while  he  played,  the  master 
slipped  away.  "Come  down,"  he  whis- 
pered to  Kerlman,  whose  fat  bulk  filled 
the  doorway.  "Let  us  come  down  and 
get  some  beer.  I  am  very  dry  this 
day." 

Over  their  mugs,  in  the  garden  across 
the  way,  they  looked  at  each  other  sol- 
emnly. Then  they  threw  back  their  big 
heads  and  laughed  till  their  sides  shook 
and  their  wigs  stood  askew.  Kerlman  laid 
his  fat  thumb  on  the  table  and  regarded 

[58] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


it  respectfully.  ''Gott  im  Himmel!"  he 
said. 

Bohm  nodded,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

The  fat  man  raised  his  thumb  from 
the  table  and  twiddled  it  in  the  air.  It 
fell  with  a  stiff  thud.  "Ja,  ja,"  he  said, 
half  impatient,  half  laughing.  ''How  is 
one    to    do    it — such    fool    tricks !    Ja, 

ja!" 
The  keen  eyes  watching  him  had   a 

proud  look.  "You  know  what  he  will  be 

— that  boy,"  he  said  exultingly.  "He  will 

be  a  great  musician!" 

"He  will  be  a  great  bother,"  grumbled 

Kerlman.    "First,"   he   checked   off  the 

vices  on  his  fingers — "first,  he  comes  to 

us  three  weeks  late — three  weeks  late — 

because  his  brother  promises,  and  takes 

it  back  and  waits  to  die — Bah  !"  He  took 

a  sip  of  beer  and  laid  out  another  fat 

finger.  "Second,  he  sings  two  octaves  at 

[59] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


the  same  time — two  octaves !  Did  one 
ever  hear  such  nonsense !  Third,  he  loses 
his  voice,  his  beautiful  voice,  and  sings 
no  more  at  all."  He  shook  his  head 
heavily.  "Fourth,  he  is  running  away  to 
Hamburg  to  listen — always  to  Hamburg, 
to  listen  to  Reinken,  and  coming  back  to 
be  forgiven.  Ja,  ja !  Seven  times  I  have 
forgiven  him.  I  think  he  is  making  ready 
now  to  go  once  more!''  He  glared  at  his 
companion. 

Bohm  nodded  slowly.  "I  was  to  ask 
you  for  that  to-day,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Ja!  ja — I  have  thought  so."  He 
looked  sadly  at  the  four  short  fingers 
resting  on  the  table.  "And  fifth — fifth 
— now  what  is  that  fifth  ?  Ach,  it  is  that ! 
That  thumb!"  He  scowled  at  it.  "That 
crawling,  snivelling,  stiff-necked  one!" 
He  brought  it  down  with  a  thump  on 
the  table.   "To  make  me  all  my  days 

[60] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


ashamed!"  He  held  up  the  thumb  and 
shook  it  scornfully. 

High  up  in  the  Johanneskirche,  in 
front  of  the  big  organ,  the  boy  was  play- 
ing— with  head  and  hands  and  heart  and 
feet  and  thumb — swaying  to  the  music, 
lifting  it  from  the  great  organ  till  it 
pealed  forth,  a  mighty  sound,  and,  break- 
ing from  the  gloomy  church,  floated  on 
the  still  air.  ...  In  the  garden  across 
the  way,  above  their  mugs,  two  old, 
white-wigged  heads  nodded  and  chuckled 
in  the  sun. 


[6i] 


Ti 


HE  Katherinenkirche  was  dark,  and 
very  still — except  for  a  faint  noise  that 
came  from  a  far  corner  of  the  upper  left- 
hand  gallery.  The  old  verger,  moving 
about  in  felt  slippers  below,  paused  now 
and  then,  and  looked  up  as  the  sound  grew 
louder  or  died  away.  It  was  like  a  mouse 
nibbling — ^and  yet  it  was  not  a  mouse. 

The  verger  lighted  a  taper  and  pre- 
pared to  ascend  the  stairs. 

He  heaved  a  sigh  as  he  climbed  the 
steep  step,  throwing  the  candle  rays 
ahead  of  him  into  the  gloom  of  the  gal- 
lery. Not  a  sound.  The  silence  of  death 
was  in  the  big  church.  .  .  .  Muttering  to 
himself,  he  traversed  the  long  aisle  at  the 
top  of  the  gallery,  peering  down  into  the 
vacant  seats  that  edged  the  blackness 
below. 

[62] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


Suddenly  he  stopped.  His  eye  had 
caught  a  gleam  of  something  to  the  left 
of  the  last  pillar.  He  snuffed  the  waver- 
ing taper  with  his  fingers  and  leaned 
forward.  A  face  grew  out  of  the  darkness 
and  stood  up. 

"What  are  you  doing  ?"  demanded  the 
old  man,  falling  back  a  step. 

*' Eating  my  supper,"  said  the  youth. 
He  held  up  a  handkerchief.  In  the  dim 
light  two  pieces  of  crisp,  dry  bread  shaped 
themselves,  and  a  generous  odor  of  cheese 
floated  out. 

"In  the  church!"  said  the  verger,  with 
an  accent  of  horror. 

The  youth's  face  regarded  him  plead- 
ingly. 

"Come  away!"  said  the  old  man 
sternly. 

He  led  the  way  down  the  steep  stair, 
into  a  high,  small  room,  lighted  by  a 

[63] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


narrow  window  over  which  cobwebs  ran. 
''Here  you  may  eat/'  he  said  laconic- 
ally. 

With  a  grateful  glance  the  youth  seated 
himself  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and  open- 
ing his  handkerchief  took  out  a  piece 
of  the  dry  bread.  His  teeth  broke  it 
crisply,  and  crunched  sharply  upon  it  as 
he  ate. 

The  old  man  nodded  with  satisfaction. 
"That  is  the  mouse,"  he  said. 

The  youth  smiled  faintly. 

"Where  do  you  come  from  ?"  asked  the 
verger. 

"From  Liineburg." 

"You  walked?" 

The  youth  nodded. 

"I  have  seen  you  before,  here." 

"Yes." 

The  old  man  watched  him  a  minute. 
"You  ought  to  have  some  beer  with  that 

[64] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


bread  and  cheese,"  he  said.  "Have  you 
no  coppers  ?" 

The  youth  shook  his  head.  "Reinken 
is  my  beer/'  he  said,  after  a  little.  His 
face  was  lighted  with  a  sweet  smile. 

The  old  man  chuckled.  "Ja,  ja!"  He 
limped  from  the  room.  Presently  he  re- 
turned with  a  pewter  mug.  It  was  foam- 
ing at  the  top.  "Drink  that,"  he  com- 
manded. 

The  youth  drank  it  with  hearty  quaffs 
and  laughed  when  it  was  done.  "Ja, 
that  is  good !"  he  said  simply. 

The  old  man  eyed  him  shrewdly.  "In 
half  an  hour  Reinken  comes  to  play,"  he 
suggested  craftily. 

The  youth  started  and  flushed.  "To- 
night?" 

"Ja." 

"I  did  not  think  he  came  at  night,"  he 
said  softly. 

[6s] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Not  often,  but  to-night.  He  wants  to 
practise  something  for  the  festival — with 
no  one  to  hear,"  he  added  significantly. 

The  boy  looked  at  him  pleadingly. 
His  hand  strayed  to  his  pockets.  They 
brought  back  two  coppers,  the  only 
wealth  he  possessed. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  kindly 
and  shook  his  head.  '*Nein,"  he  said. 
"It  is  not  for  the  money  I  shall  do  it.  It 
is  because  I  have  seen  you  before — ^when 
he  played.  You  shall  hear  him  and  see 
him.  Come."  He  put  aside  the  youth's 
impulsive  hand,  and  led  the  way  up  a 
winding,  dark  stairway,  through  a  little 
door  in  the  organ-loft.  Groping  along  the 
wall  he  slipped  back  a  panel. 

The  boy  peered  out.  Below  him,  a 
little  to  the  left,  lay  the  great  organ,  and 
far  below  in  the  darkness  stretched  the 
church.   When  he  turned,  the  old  man 

[66] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


was  gone.  Down  below  in  the  loft  he 
watched  his  twinkhng  path  as  the  taper 
flashed  from  candle  to  candle. 

The  great  Reinken  was  a  little  late. 
He  came  in  hurriedly,  pushing  back  the 
sleeves  of  his  scholar's  gown  as  they  fell 
forward  on  his  hands.  The  hands  were 
wrinkled,  the  boy  noted,  and  old.  He 
had  forgotten  that  the  master  was  old. 
Sixty  years — seventy — ah,  more  than  sev- 
enty. Nine  years  ago  he  was  that — at 
the  Bach  festival.  The  boy's  heart  gave 
a  leap.  Seventy-nine — an  old  man!  .  .  . 
he  should  never  meet  him  in  open  festival 
and  challenge  him.  There  would  not  be 
time.  .  .  .  The  music  stole  about  him  and 
quieted  his  pulse.  He  stood  watching  the 
face  as  it  bent  above  the  keys.  It  was  a 
noble  face.  There  was  a  touch  of  petu- 
lance in  it,  perhaps  of  pride  and  impa- 
tience in  the  quick  glance  that  lifted  now 

[67] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


and  then.  But  it  was  a  grand  face,  with 
goodness  in  it,  and  strength  and  power. 
The  boy's  heart  went  from  him.  ...  If 
he  might  but  touch  a  fold  of  the  faded 
gown — seek  a  blessing  from  the  wrinkled 
hands  on  the  keys.  Spring  was  about  him 
— ^white  clouds  and  blossoms  and  the 
smell  of  fresh  earth.  "  By  the  waters,  the 
waters  of  Babylon;  by  the  waters."  The 
slender,  delicate  hands  called  out  the 
notes  one  by  one.  Tears  ran  down  the 
boy's  face.  Gropingly  he  felt  for  the  door 
— only  to  seek  a  blessing  of  the  hands.  .  .  . 

The  old  verger  waited  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  nodding  in  the  dim  light.  He 
sprang  up,  startled  and  rubbing  his  eyes. 

*'I  want  to  speak  to  him,"  said  the 
youth  humbly.  "Only  a  word!" 

The  old  man  hesitated.  The  music  had 
ceased  and  a  slow  step  was  coming  down 
the  church — an  old  man's  step. 

[68] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


*'Ja.  Stand  there,"  he  whispered.  "It 
shall  be  as  you  wish.  Stand  there!" 
He  pushed  the  youth  behind  a  pillar  and 
stepped  forward,  his  taper  held  aloft. 

"Mein  Herr,"  he  said  softly. 

The  organist  paused  and  looked  at  him 
inquiringly.  His  face  was  very  tired. 
"What  wouldst  thou,  Wilhelm  ?"  he  said 
gently. 

"It  is  a  young  man — "  he  stammered 
and  paused. 

"A  young  man  ?" 

"He  would  speak  with  you,  Mein  Herr 
— but  a  word."  The  old  man's  voice 
waited. 

"Speak  with  me?  Does  he  bring  cre- 
dentials?" 

"Nay,  your  honor " 

The  great  organist  drew  his  gown 
about  him.  "I  have  not  time,  Wilhelm. 
Many  seek  me  and  life  runs  fast.  I  have 

[69] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


not  time."  He  bowed  courteously  and 
moved  on.  As  he  passed  the  pillar  a  fold 
of  his  robe  floated  out  and  touched  the 
hand  of  the  youth,  kneeling  there,  hidden 
in  the  dim  light. 


[70] 


VI 


Ti 


HE  choirmaster  smiled  deprecatingly. 
He  had  small,  obsequious  eyes  and  nar- 
row shoulders.  "If  the  gracious  Herr 
would  be  so  good/'  he  said,  shrugging 
them  a  little.  "The  people  have  assem- 
bled." He  glanced  back  over  the  fast- 
filling  church  and  raised  his  eyebrows  a 
trifle  to  indicate  the  honor. 

Bach  smiled  gravely.  A  humorous  look 
came  into  his  eyes.  "Let  the  service  go 
on  as  usual,"  he  said  quietly.  "When  it 
is  done,  I  will  play — if  time  allows." 

The  choirmaster  squeezed  his  moist 
palms  and  wiped  an  anxious  brow.  "And 
that,  too — ^will  be  well,"  he  murmured 
gratefully.  "It  will  please  the  old  organ- 
ist," he  added  apologetically. 

Bach  nodded  his  head.  "I  had  thought 
of  that." 

[71] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  other  stared.  "You  know  Rein- 
ken  ?"  he  asked. 

The  great  organist  shook  his  head.  "I 
have  seen  him."  The  humorous  smile 
played  about  his  lips.  *'I  have  never 
spoken  with  him." 

"He  has  been  a  great  player — in  his 
day,"  said  the  choirmaster.  The  note  of 
apology  in  his  voice  had  deepened. 

"That  I  know,"  said  Bach  shortly. 

"And  now  it  is  the  people — they  will 
not  let  him  go,"  murmured  the  choir- 
master despairingly.  "Each  Sunday  he 
must  play — every  motet  and  aria  and 
choral — and  he  is  ninety-nine.  Mein 
Gott!"  The  choirmaster  wiped  his  brow. 

"It  is  a  long  life,"  said  Bach  musingly. 
A  sweet  look  had  come  into  his  face,  like 
the  sunlight  on  an  autumn  field.  He  raised 
his  hand  with  a  courteous  gesture.  "Let  me 
be  summoned  later — at  the  right  time." 

[72] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


The  choirmaster  bowed  himself  away. 

Already  the  notes  of  the  great  organ 
filled  the  church.  It  was  Reinken's  touch 
upon  the  keys — feeble  and  tremulous 
here  and  there — but  still  the  touch  of  the 
master. 

With  bent  head  Bach  moved  to  a 
place  a  little  apart  and  sat  down.  Curi- 
ous  glances  followed  him  and  whispers 
ran  through  the  church,  coming  back  to 
gaze  at  the  severe,  quiet  face,  with  its 
look  of  sweetness  and  power. 

He  was  unconscious  of  the  crowd.  His 
thoughts  were  with  the  old  man  playing 
aloft — the  thin,  serene  face — the  wrinkled 
hands  upon  the  keys — twenty  years.  .  .  . 
The  time  had  come — at  last.  .  .  .  The 
music  stole  through  his  musings  and 
touched  him.  He  lifted  his  face  as  the 
sound  swept  through  the  church.  The  fire 
and  strength  of  youth  had  gone  from  the 

[73] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


touch,  but  something  remained — some- 
thing inevitable  and  gentle  that  soothed 
the  spirit  and  lifted  the  heart — like  the 
ghost  of  a  soul  calling  to  itself  from  the 
past. 

Bach  started.  A  hand  had  fallen  on 
his  shoulder.  It  was  the  choirmaster, 
small-eyed  and  eager.  Bach  followed  him 
blindly. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  the  choir- 
master turned  and  waited  for  him.  "At 
last  we  have  the  honor.  Welcome  to  the 
greatest  master  in  Germany!"  he  said 
smoothly,  throwing  open  the  door. 

Without  a  word  Bach  brushed  past 
him.  His  eye  sought  the  great  organ. 
The  master  had  left  the  bench  and  sat 
a  few  steps  below,  leaning  forward,  his 
hands  clasped  on  his  cane,  his  white  head 
nodding  tremblingly  above  it.  Far  below 
the  words  of  the  preacher  droned  to  a 

[74] 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


close,  and  the  crowd  stirred  and  craned 
discreet  necks. 

Quietly  the  organist  slipped  into  the 
vacant  place.  The  Bach  festival  danced 
before  him.  .  .  .  Uncle  Heinrich  on  the 
platform — "The  great  Reinken — ^will  no 
one  of  you  promise?"  His  father's  face 
smiling,  his  father's  hand  on  his  head.  .  .  . 
Slowly  his  hands  dropped  to  the  keys. 

The  audience  settled  back  with  a  sigh. 
At  last  they  should  hear  him — the  great 
Bach. 

The  silence  waited,  deep  and  patient 
and  unerring,  as  it  had  waited  a  decade 
— the  touch  of  this  man.  A  sound  crossed 
it  and  the  audience  turned  bewildered 
faces.  Question  and  dissent  and  wonder 
were  in  them.  .  .  .  Not  some  mighty 
fugue,  as  they  had  hoped — not  even  an 
aria,  but  a  simple  air  from  a  quaint,  old- 
fashioned  choral, — "By  the  waters,  the 

[75] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


waters  of  Babylon."  They  looked  at  one 
another  with  Ufted  brows.  Relnken's 
choral ! — and  played  with  Relnken's  very 
touch — a  gentle,  hurrying  rhythm  .  .  . 
as  Reinken  used  to  play  it — when  he  was 
young.  ...  In  a  moment  they  under- 
stood. Tears  stood  in  bewildered  eyes 
and  a  look  of  sweet  good-will  swept  the 
church.  He  had  given  back  to  them  their 
own.  Their  thought  ran  tenderly  to  the 
old  man  above,  hearkening  to  his  own 
soul  coming  to  him,  strong  and  swift  and 
eternal,  out  of  the  years.  Underneath  the 
choral  and  above  it  and  around,  went 
the  soul  of  Bach,  steadfast  and  true, 
wishing  only  to  serve,  and  through  ser- 
vice making  beautiful.  He  filled  with 
wonder  and  majesty  and  tenderness  the 
simple  old  choral. 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  church,  a 
sound  of  love  and  admiration.  And  above, 

[761 


Thumbs  and  Fugues 


with  streaming  eyes,  an  old  man  groped 
his  way  to  the  organ,  his  hands  held  out 
to  touch  the  younger  ones  that  reached 
to  him.  "I  thought  my  work  had  died," 
he  said  slowly,  "Now  that  it  lives,  I  can 
die  in  peace." 


[77] 


=^=^'=  5B> 


A  WINDOW  OF  MUSIC 


====^^^^^=  51> 


A  Window  of  Music 

I 

"About  so  high,  I  should  think," 
said  the  girl,  with  a  swift  twinkle.  She 
measured  off  a  diminutive  man  on  the 
huge  blue-and-white  porcelain  stove  and 
stood  back  to  survey  it.  "And  about  as 
big,''  she  added  reflectively. 

Her  sister  laughed.  The  girl  nodded 
again. 

"And  terribly  homely,"  she  said,  mak- 
ing a  little  mouth.  Her  eyes  laughed.  She 
leaned  forward  with  a  mysterious  air. 
"And,  Marie,  his  coat  is  green,  and  his 
trousers  are — white!" 

The  two  girls  giggled  in  helpless  amuse- 
ment. They  had  a  stolid  German  air  of 
family    resemblance,    but    the    laughing 

[8i] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


eyes  of  the  younger  danced  in  their 
round  setting,  while  the  sleepy  blue  ones 
of  the  older  girl  followed  the  twinkling 
pantomime  with  a  look  of  half  protest. 

"They  were  in  the  big  reception- 
room/'  went  on  the  girl,  "and  I  bounced 
in  on  them.  Mamma  Rosine  was  giving 
him  the  family  history — you  and  me.'' 

They  giggled  again. 

The  younger  one  drew  down  her  face 
and  folded  her  hands  in  matronly  dignity, 
gazing  pensively  at  the  blue-and-white 
stove,  her  head  a  little  to  one  side. 

"My  own  voice  is  alto,  Herr  Schu- 
bert, and  my  daughter  Caroline's;  but 
my  daughter  Marie  has  a  beautiful  so- 
prano." She  rolled  her  eyes,  with  an  air 
of  resigned  sentiment,  and  shook  the 
bobbing  black  curls  gently  from  side  to 
side.  "And  he  just  twiddled  his  thumbs 
like  this,  and  grunted."  She  seized  her 

[82] 


A  Window  of  Music 


sister  around  her  plump  waist  and  shook 
her  vigorously.  "Don't  you  see  it?"  she 
demanded. 

The  older  girl  laughed  hysterically, 
with  disturbed  eyes. 

"Don't,  Cara!"  she  protested. 

The  dark  eyes  bubbled  again. 

"And  his  hair  curls  as  tight — "  She 
ran  a  hand  along  her  rumpled  curls,  then 
a  look  of  dismay  crossed  the  laughing 
face.  She  subsided  into  a  chair  and 
folded  her  hands  meekly.  The  little  feet, 
in  their  stout  ankle-ties,  swung  back  and 
forth  beneath  the  chair,  and  the  round, 
German  face  assumed  an  air  of  whole- 
some stupidity. 

Her  sister,  whose  slow  glance  had  fol- 
lowed hers,  gave  a  little  gasp,  and  sank 
into  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stove,  in  duplicate  meekness. 

The  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 

[83] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


had  swung  open,  and  a  tall  woman  swept 
in,  followed  by  a  diminutive  figure  in 
green  coat  and  white  trousers.  A  pair  of 
huge  spectacles,  mounted  on  a  somewhat 
stumpy  nose,  peered  absently  from  side 
to  side  as  he  approached. 

"My  daughters,  Herr  Schubert,"  said 
the  tall  lady,  with  a  circumflex  wave  of 
her  white  hand  that  included  the  wax- 
like figures  on  each  side  the  stove. 

They  regarded  him  fixedly  and  primly. 

His  glance  darted  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  he  smiled  broadly. 

'^I  haf  seen  the  young  Frdulein  be- 
fore," he  said,  indicating  the  younger 
with  his  fat  hand. 

The  dark,  round  eyes  gazed  at  him 
expressionless.  His  spectacles  returned 
the  gaze  and  twinkled. 

"She  has  come  into  the  reception- 
room  while  you  were  explaining  about 

[84] 


A  Window  of  Music 


the  voice  of  Fraulein  Marie/'  he  said, 
with  a  glance  at  the  other  sister. 

The  waxUke  faces  shook  a  little. 

The  lady  regarded  them  severely. 

*'She  is  only  eleven,"  she  murmured 
apologetically  to  the  little  man. 

''Ja!  So?"  he  muttered.  His  glance 
flashed  again  at  the  immovable  face. 

"Caroline,  my  child,  come  here,"  said 
her  mother. 

The  child  slipped  down  from  the  stiff 
chair  and  crossed  to  her  mother's  side. 
Her  little  hands  were  folded,  and  her 
small  toes  pointed  primly  ahead. 

"My  youngest  daughter,  Herr  Schu- 
bert," said  the  lady,  slipping  an  arm 
around  the  stiff  waist.  "Caroline,  this  is 
your  new  music  tutor,  Herr  Schubert." 

The  child  bobbed  primly,  and  lifted  a 
pair  of  dark,  reflective  eyes  to  his  face. 

His  own  smiled  shrewdly. 

[8s] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


She  will  be  a  good  pupil,"  he  said; 

It  is  the  musical  type."  The  green  coat 
and  white  trousers  bowed  circumspectly 
to  the  small  figure. 

"Now,  Marie" — the  tall  lady  shook 
out  her  skirts — "Herr  Schubert  will  try 
your  voice.  But  first,  Herr  Schubert, 
will  you  not  give  us  the  pleasure?"  She 
motioned  politely  toward  the  piano,  and 
sank  back  with  an  air  of  fatigued  senti- 
ment. 

He  sat  down  on  the  stool  and  ran  his 
white,  fat  fingers  through  his  curling 
hair.  It  bristled  a  little.  The  fingers  fell 
to  his  knees,  and  his  big  head  nodded 
indecisively.  Then  it  was  thrown  back, 
and  the  fingers  dropped  on  the  keys:  the 
music  of  a  Beethoven  sonata  filled  the 
room. 

The  grand  lady  forgot  her  sentiment, 
and  the  little  waxlike  figures  gave  way. 
Their  eager,  tremulous  eyes  rested  won- 

[86] 


A  Window  of  Music 


deringly  on  the  broad  back  of  the 
player. 

The  white  fingers  had  dropped  on  the 
keys  with  the  Hghtness  of  a  feather.  They 
rose  and  flashed  and  twinkled,  and  ran 
along  the  keyboard  with  swift,  steel-like 
touch.  The  door  at  the  end  of  the  room 
opened  softly.  A  tall  man  entered.  He 
looked  inquiringly  at  the  grotesque  green- 
and-white  figure  seated  before  the  piano, 
then  his  glance  met  his  wife's,  and  he 
sank  into  a  big  chair  by  the  door,  a 
pleased  look  on  his  dark  face.  The  younger 
child  glanced  at  him  shyly.  He  returned 
the  look  and  smiled.  The  child's  face 
brightened. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  a  slight 
figure  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  looked 
approvingly  toward  the  piano,  and 
dropped  into  a  chair  at  the  other  side 
of  the  door,  twirling  his  long,  light 
mustaches. 

[87] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  player,  wrapped  in  sound,  was  ob- 
livious to  the  world  outside.  The  music 
enveloped  him  and  rose  about  him,  trans- 
figuring the  plain,  squat  figure,  floating 
above  the  spectacled  face  and  crisp,  curl- 
ing locks.  His  hearers  glanced  approv- 
ingly at  one  another  now  and  then,  but 
no  one  spoke  or  moved.  Suddenly  they 
were  aware  that  a  new  mood  had  crept 
into  the  notes.  Quick,  sharp  flashes  of 
fear  alternated  with  passages  of  clear,  sun- 
lit strength,  and  underneath  the  chang- 
ing melody  galloping  hoof-beats  rose  and 
fell. 

The  dark-eyed  child  sat  poised  for- 
ward, her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees, 
her  tremulous  gaze  fixed  on  the  flying 
fingers.  She  started  and  caught  her  breath 
sharply.  Faster  and  faster  thudded  the 
hoofs;  the  note  of  questioning  fear  beat 
louder,   and   into  the   sweet,   answering 

[88] 


A  Window  of  Music 


melody  crept  a  note  of  doubt,  undefined 
and  terrible,  a  spirit  echo  of  the  flying 
hoofs.  It  caught  up  question  and  answer, 
and  turned  them  to  sharp,  swift  flight. 
The  pursuing  hoofs  struck  the  sound  and 
broke  it;  with  a  cry  the  child  leaped  to 
her  feet.  Her  hands  were  outstretched, 
and  her  face  worked.  The  man  by  the 
door  turned  slightly.  He  held  out  a  quiet, 
imperious  hand,  and  the  child  fled  across 
the  room,  clasping  the  hand  in  both  her 
own,  and  burying  her  face  in  his  shoulder. 
The  swift  sound  was  upon  them,  around 
them,  over  them,  sweeping  past,  whirling 
them  in  its  leaping,  gigantic  grasp.  It 
hesitated  a  second,  grew  strangely  sweet 
and  hushed,  and  dropped  through  a  full, 
clear  octave  on  a  low  note.  It  ceased.  The 
air  quivered.  The  player  sat  motionless, 
gazing  before  him. 

The  dark  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  his 

L89] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


face  illumined,  the  child  clinging  to  his 
hand.  He  patted  the  dark  curls  carelessly 
as  he  flashed  a  smile  to  the  young  man 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"That's  mine,  Schonstein,"  he  said 
exultantly;  "your  tenor  voice  won't  carry 
that." 

The  other  nodded  half  grudgingly. 

They  were  both  looking  toward  the 
player.  He  swayed  a  little  on  the  stool, 
stared  at  the  ceiling  a  moment,  and  swung 
slowly  about,  blinking  uncertainly. 

The  older  man  stepped  forward,  hold- 
ing out  a  quick  hand. 

"Wunderschon!"  he  said  warmly. 
"What  is  it  \  Are  there  words  to  it  ?  Can 
you  get  it  for  me  ?" 

The  tiny  man  seemed  to  shrink  a 
little.  He  put  out  his  fat  hand  and 
waited  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  The 
full,  thick  lips  groped  at  the  words. 

[90] 


A  Window  of  Music 


"It  is — it  is  something — of  my  own," 
he  said  at  last. 

They  crowded  about  him,  questioning 
and  dehghted. 

"Have  you  pubUshed  it  ?  What  is  it  ?" 

"*Der  Erlkonig,'"  said  Schubert 
shortly.  The  child's  face  quivered. 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

Her  father  glanced  down  at  her,  smil- 
ing. 

"What  do  you  know  ?"  he  said  gently. 

"I  read  it,"  said  the  child,  simply. 
She  shivered  a  little.  "The  Erlking  car- 
ried him  off,"  she  said.  She  covered  her 
face,  suddenly  in  tears.  She  was  quiver- 
ing from  head  to  foot. 

The  count  glanced  significantly  at  his 
wife.  She  came  forward  and  laid  her 
hand  on  the  child's  shoulder. 

"Come,  Caroline.  Come,  Marie,"  she 
said.  "Later,  Herr  Schubert,  I  shall  have 

[91] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


the  pleasure  of  thanking  you/'  She  swept 
from  the  room. 

The  three  men  remained,  looking  a 
little  uncomfortably  toward  the  closed 
door. 

The  count  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
glanced  at  the  musician. 

*'A  very  impressionable  child/'  he 
said  lightly. 

"A  very  unusual  child,"  returned  the 
small  man  gravely.  He  was  blinking  ab- 
sently at  the  count's  dark  face.  "She  has 
the  temperament,"  he  murmured  softly; 
"she  will  learn." 

The  count  beamed  on  him. 

"We  depend  on  you  to  teach  her,"  he 
said  suavely.  "You  will  go  with  us  next 
week  to  Zelitz  ?" 

The  young  man  bowed  uncertainly. 
His  full  lips  smiled  doubtfully.  "It  is  an 
honor,"  he  said,  "but  I  must  work.  There 

[92] 


A  Window  of  Music 


is  not  time  to  lose.  I  must  work."  He 
moved  his  big  head  from  side  to  side  and 
twirled  his  fingers. 

The  count  smiled  genially. 

"It  shall  be  arranged — a  little  house 
by  yourself,  apart  from  the  castle — a 
piano,  absolute  quiet,  lessons  only  by 
your  own  arrangement."  He  spoke  qui- 
etly, in  the  tone  of  a  superior  granting 
terms. 

The  thick  lips  opposite  him  were  puck- 
ering a  little,  and  the  eyes  behind  the 
great  spectacles  blinked  mistily. 

"I  must  have  time,"  repeated  the  little 
man — "time  to  think  of  it." 

The  count's  face  clouded  a  shade. 

"We  depend  on  you,"  he  said.  The  tone 
had  changed  subtly.  It  was  less  assertive. 
"With  the  Baron  von  Schonstein — "  he 
motioned  toward  his  companion;  the  two 
young  men  bowed   slightly — "with  the 

[93] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


baron  we  have  a  fine  quartet,  and  with 
you  to  train  us — oh,  you  must  come!" 
His  face  broke  into  a  winning  smile. 

The  young  man  smiled  in  return. 

*'I  will  come,"  he  said;  ''but— free," 
he  added. 

"  Free  as  the  wind,"  assented  the  count 
easily.  The  note  of  patronage  was  gone. 

A  big  sunny  smile  broke  over  the  mu- 
sician's face.  It  radiated  from  the  spec- 
tacles and  broadened  the  wide  mouth. 

''Ach!  We  shall  do  great  things!"  he 
announced  proudly. 

"Great  things,"  assented  the  count. 
"And  'Der  Erlkonig' — I  must  have  'Der 
Erlkonig.'  Bring  it  with  you." 

"'Der  Erlkonig'  shall  be  yours,"  said 
Schubert  grandly.  There  was  the  air  of 
granting  a  royal  favor  in  the  round, 
green-and-white  little  figure  as  it  bowed 
itself  from  the  room. 

[94] 


A  Window  of  Music 


In  the  hall  he  stumbled  a  little,  look- 
ing uncertainly  about.  A  small  figure 
glided  from  a  curtained  window  and  ap- 
proached him  timidly. 

"Your  hat  is  on  the  next  landing,  Herr 
Schubert,"  she  said. 

He  looked  down  at  her.  His  big  face 
flushed  with  pleasure.  "You  like  my 
music,''  he  said  bluntly. 

She  shook  her  head  gravely. 

"It  is  terrible,"  she  replied. 

The  spectacles  glared  at  her. 

"It  hurts  me  here."  She  raised  a  small, 
dark  hand  to  her  chest. 

The  musician's  eyes  lighted. 

"That  is  right,"  he  said  simply;  "ja, 
that  is  right — it  hurts." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  in 
the  dim  light.  The  child's  eyes  studied 
the  big  face  wistfully. 

I  wish  you  would  never  play  it  again." 

[95] 


(( 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Not  play  my  ^Erlkonig!'"  He  glared 
at  her. 

She  nodded  slowly. 

*' Never,"  she  said. 

He  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  her 
sternly.  He  pushed  his  spectacles  far  up 
on  the  short  curls  and  rubbed  his  nose 
vigorously. 

The  child's  eyes  waited  on  the  queer, 
perturbed  face.  She  gave  a  quick  little 
sigh.  Her  lips  had  parted. 

He  looked  down  with  a  sudden  big 
smile. 

"I  will  never  play  it  for  you  again," 
he  said  grandly.  The  spectacles  descended 
swiftly,  the  door  banged  behind  him, 
and  the  child  was  left  alone  in  the  great 
dim  hall. 


[96] 


II 


Ti 


HE  heat  of  the  day  was  nearly  spent, 
but  the  leaves  of  the  oaks  hung  motion- 
less. The  two  young  men  walking  be- 
neath them  had  bared  their  heads.  One 
of  them  glanced  up  now  and  then,  as  if 
looking  for  coolness  in  the  green  canopy. 

"It  will  rain  before  night,"  said  the 
baron,  casually,  noting  the  glance.  His 
lithe  figure,  in  its  white  suit  and  blue  tie, 
showed  no  sign  of  heat  or  fatigue. 

The  musician,  puffing  beside  him,  wiped 
a  handkerchief  across  his  warm  face. 

"  Ja,  it  will  rain,"  he  assented  hopefully. 

The  baron  glanced  at  him,  smiling. 

"You  find  ten  miles  a  good  stretch," 
he  remarked.  "We  went  too  far,  perhaps." 

"Nein,  not  too  far.  We  have  had  great 
talk,"  responded  Schubert.  His  face  un- 
der its  mask  of  perspiration  shone  glori- 

[97] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


ously.  He  glanced  down  a  little  ruefully 
at  his  short,  fat  legs  in  their  white  cas- 
ings. "But  my  legs  they  do  not  talk,"  he 
announced  naively.  "Ja,  they  are  very 
weary,  perhaps;  but  my  soul  is  not 
weary."  He  struck  his  breast  a  resound- 
ing blow  with  the  palm  of  his  hand  and 
straightened  his  short  body. 

The  baron  laughed  musically. 

A  low,  sweet  sound,  stealing  among 
the  oaks,  answered  the  laugh.  They 
stopped  short,  looking  at  each  other. 
The  sound  came  again,  a  far-off,  haunt- 
ing peal,  with  a  little  catch  and  sob  in 
its  breath. 

They  stole  swiftly  forward  on  tiptoe. 
Among  the  trees  a  roof  and  the  outline 
of  a  small  building  glimmered.  It  was  cov- 
ered with  dark  ivy.  Smoke  came  from 
the  chimney,  and  through  the  open  win- 
dow drifted  the  strange,  alluring  sound. 

[98] 


A  Window  of  Music 


"The  house  of  the  Httle  folk  of  the 
wood,"  whispered  Schubert,  pressing  for- 
ward. 

"The  wash-house,"  returned  the  baron, 
with  a  laugh. 

The  sound  had  ceased.  The  wood,  in 
the  soft  heat,  was  very  still. 

"It  is  Marka,"  said  the  baron,  glanc- 
ing toward  the  house.  "Marka  has  charge 
of  the  linen.  I  heard  her  the  other  day, 
in  one  of  the  corridors,  singing;  but  Fritz 
hushed  her  up  before  she'd  begun.  She's 
a  Hungarian — 


>> 


"Hush!"  Schubert  lifted  a  finger. 

The  music  had  begun  again.  The  sad- 
ness was  gone  from  it.  It  laughed  and 
smiled  to  itself,  and  grew  merry  in  a 
sweet,  shy  fashion  that  set  the  air  about 
them  astir  in  little  rippling  runs. 

Schubert  had  started  forward. 

"I  must  have  it!"  he  said  impetuously. 

[99] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Take  care!"  warned  Schonstein;  "she 
Is  a  witch." 

The  musician  laughed,  stealing  away 
among  the  tree-trunks.  He  moved  softly 
forward,  his  short  fingers  fumbling  at  his 
pockets.  A  torn  envelope  and  the  stub  of 
a  pencil  rewarded  the  search.  His  face 
lighted  as  he  grasped  the  pencil  more 
firmly  in  his  fingers,  moistening  it  at  his 
thick  lips;  he  approached  the  open  win- 
dow. 

He  peered  uncertainly  into  the  dim 
room.  By  the  fireplace  stood  a  lithe,  quick 
figure,  sorting  the  pile  of  linen  at  her  side. 
As  she  lifted  each  delicate  piece  she  exam- 
ined it  for  holes  or  rents.  Careless  little 
snatches  of  song  played  about  her  lips 
as  she  worked. 

The  torn  envelope  rested  on  the  sill, 
and  the  stubby  pencil  flew  across  its 
surface.  The  big  face  of  the  musician, 

[  loo] 


A  Window  of  Music 


bent  above  it,  was  alight  with  joy.  The 
sound  ceased,  and  he  straightened  him- 
self, pushing  back  the  hat  from  his  brow, 
and  gazing  fondly  at  the  little  dots  on 
the  torn  bit  of  paper. 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  start.  The 
shadow  had  fallen  on  her  linen.  She 
gazed  with  open,  incredulous  lips  at  the 
uncouth  figure  framed  in  the  window. 

A  broad  smile  wreathed  the  big  face. 

"Go  on,  Marka,"  he  said.  He  nodded 
encouragement. 

She  looked  down  at  the  pillow-slip  in 
her  hands,  and  back  again  to  the  face  in 
the  window.  The  linen  slip  was  plaited 
uncertainly  in  her  fingers. 

"Go  on,"  said  Schubert  peremptorily. 
"You  were  singing.  What  was  it,  that 
tune .?  Go  on." 

She  looked  up  again  with  bold  shyness, 
and  shook  her  head. 

[  loi  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  face  glared  at  her. 

She  smiled  saucily,  and,  putting  two 
plump  hands  into  her  apron  pockets,  ad- 
vanced toward  the  window.  Her  steps 
danced  a  little. 

Franz  stared  at  the  vision.  He  took 
off  his  spectacles  and  rubbed  them,  blink- 
ing a  little. 

''Waugh!"  he  said. 

She  laughed  musically. 

He  replaced  the  spectacles,  and  looked 
at  her  more  kindly. 

She  was  leaning  on  the  other  side  of 
the  casing,  her  arms  folded  on  the  sill. 
Her  saucy  face  was  tilted  to  his. 

He  bent  suddenly,  and  kissed  it  full 
on  the  mouth. 

She  started  back,  fetching  him  a  ring- 
ing slap  on  the  cheek. 

"You  ugly  thing!"  she  said.  She 
laughed. 

[  102] 


A  Window  of  Music 


Franz  gazed  serenely  at  the  sky,  a 
pleased  smile  on  his  lips. 

*' You're  too  ugly  to  look  at,"  said  the 
girl  promptly. 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  smiled. 

"That  tasted  good/'  he  said. 

She  pouted  a  little  and  glanced  at  the 
door. 

His  glance  followed  hers. 

"Sing  me  some  more,"  he  suggested 
craftily. 

She  threw  back  her  head,  and  her  lips 
broke  into  a  strange,  sweet  sound.  The 
dark  eyes  were  half  veiled,  and  her  full 
throat  swelled. 

The  wood  about  them  darkened  as  she 
sang.  Swift  birds  flashed  by  to  their 
nests,  and  the  green  leaves  quivered  a 
little.  A  clash  broke  among  the  tree-tops; 
they  swayed  and  beat  heavily,  and  big 
drops  fell.  The  girl's  eyes  flashed  wide. 

[  103  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  song  ceased  on  her  Hps.  She  glanced 
at  the  big  drops  on  the  sill  and  then  at 
the  open  door. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  shyly. 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 


[104] 


III 

W  E  feared  that  you  were  not  com- 
ing, Herr  Schubert,"  said  the  countess 
suavely. 

The  group  had  gathered  in  the  music- 
room.  .  .  .  The  storm  had  ceased,  and  a 
cool  breeze  came  through  the  window. 
Outside  in  the  castle  grounds  dim  lights 
glimmered. 

The  young  man  advanced  into  the 
group  a  little  awkwardly,  rubbing  his 
eyes  as  if  waking  from  a  dream. 

The  baron,  standing  by  the  piano, 
glanced  at  him  sharply  under  lowered 
lids.  His  lips  took  on  a  little  smile,  not 
unkind,  but  full  of  secret  amusement. 

The  musician  passed  him  without  a 
glance,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  piano, 
threw  back  his  head  with  an  impatient 
gesture.  He  turned  swiftly  the  leaves  of 

[los] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


music  that  stood  on  the  rack  before 
him. 

"Sing  this,"  he  said  briefly. 

He  struck  a  few  chords,  and  they  gath- 
ered about  him,  taking  up  their  parts 
with  a  careless  famiUarity  and  skill.  It 
was  Haydn's  "Creation."  They  had  sung 
it  many  times,  but  a  new  power  was  in 
it  to-night.  The  music  lifted  them.  The 
touch  on  the  keys  held  the  sound,  and 
shaped  it,  and  filled  it  with  light. 

When  it  was  finished  they  glanced  at 
one  another.  They  smiled;  then  they 
looked  at  the  player.  He  sat  wrapped  in 
thought,  his  head  bowed,  his  fingers 
touching  the  keys  with  questioning  touch. 
They  moved  back  noiselessly  and  waited. 
When  he  was  like  this,  they  did  not  dis- 
turb him. 

The  melody  crept  out  at  last,  the 
strange,   haunting   Hungarian   air,   with 

[io6] 


A  Window  of  Music 


unrest  and  sadness  and  passion  and 
sweetness  trembling  through  it. 

The  baron  started  as  he  heard  it.  He 
moved  carelessly  to  the  window  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  room,  looking 
out. 

The  countess  looked  up  with  a  startled 
air.  She  glanced  inquiringly  toward  her 
husband.  He  was  leaning  forward,  a 
look  of  interest  on  his  dark  face.  The 
child  at  his  knee  shrank  a  little.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  a  strange  light.  On  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  room  her  sister  Marie  sat 
unmoved,  her  placid  doll  eyes  resting  on 
the  player  with  a  look  of  gentle  content. 

The  passionate  note  quickened.  Some- 
thing uncanny  and  impure  had  crept  into 
it.  It  raised  its  head  and  hissed  a  little 
and  was  gone,  gliding  away  among  the 
low  notes  and  losing  itself  in  a  rustling 
wave  of  sound.  .  .  .  The  music  trembled 

[  107] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


a  moment  and  was  still;  then  the  passion 
burst  in  a  flood  upon  them.  Dark  chasms 
opened;  strange,  wild  fastnesses  shut 
them  in;  storm  and  license  and  evil  held 
them.  Blinding  flashes  fell  on  them. 
Slowly  the  player  emerged  into  a  wide 
sunlit  place.  The  music  filled  it.  Winds 
blew  from  the  four  quarters  to  meet  it, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  melody. 

The  count  stirred  a  little  as  the  last 
notes  fell. 

"A  strange  composition/'  he  said 
briefly. 

The  child  at  his  knee  lifted  her  head. 
She  raised  a  tiny  hand  and  brought  it 
down  sharply,  her  small  face  aglow  with 
suppressed  anger. 

"It  was  not  good!"  she  said. 

The  player  turned  to  look  at  her.  His 
big  face  worked  strangely. 

No,  it  was  not  good,"  he  said.   "I 

[io8] 


(( 


A  Window  of  Music 


shall  not  play  that  again.  But  it  is  great 
music,"  he  added,  with  a  little  laugh. 

The  count  looked  at  him  shrewdly. 
He  patted  the  child's  trembling  hand. 

"Now,"  he  said  soothingly,  "some- 
thing to  clear  away  the  mists!  'Der 
Erlkonig.'  We  have  never  had  it;  bring 
it  out." 

Schubert  hesitated  an  instant.  He 
glanced  at  the  child. 

"That  music — I  have  it  not,  Herr 
Count — I  left  it  in  Vienna." 

The  count  moved  impatiently. 

"Play  it  from  memory,"  he  said. 

The  musician  turned  slowly  to  the 
piano. 

The  child's  eyes  followed  him.  She 
shivered  a  little. 

He  swung  back  with  a  swift  gesture, 
feeling  absently  in  his  pockets. 

A    piece  of   tissue-paper,"   he  mur- 

[  109  ] 


(( 


Unfinished  Portraits 


mured.  He  had  extracted  a  small  comb 
from  one  of  his  pockets.  He  regarded  it 
thoughtfully.  '*  If  I  had  one  little  piece  of 
paper — "  He  looked  about  him  helplessly. 

"There  is  some  in  the  music-rack, 
Marie.  Find  it  for  him,"  said  the  count. 

The  girl  found  it  and  laid  it  in  his  hand. 

He  turned  back  to  the  piano,  adjust- 
ing and  smoothing  it.  His  broad  back  was 
an  effective  screen.  The  group  waited,  a 
look  of  interest  on  their  faces. 

Suddenly  he  wheeled  about,  his  hands 
raised  to  his  mouth,  the  comb,  thinly 
covered  with  tissue-paper,  at  his  lips, 
and  his  fat  cheeks  distended.  His  eyes 
behind  the  big  spectacles  glowed  por- 
tentously. 

They  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment. 

He  drew  a  full  breath  and  drove  it 
forth,  a  lugubrious  note.  With  scowling 
brows  and  set  face  he  darted  the  instru- 

[no] 


A  Window  of  Music 


ment  back  and  forth  across  his  puckered 
Hps.  It  wailed  and  shrieked,  and  out  of 
the  noise  and  discord  emerged,  at  a  gal- 
loping trot,  "Der  Erlkonig!" 

The  child,  who  had  been  regarding 
him  intently,  threw  back  her  head,  and 
a  little  laugh  broke  from  her  lips.  Her 
face  danced.  She  came  and  stood  by  the 
player,  her  hand  resting  on  his  knee. 

Herr  Schubert  puffed  and  blew,  and 
"The  Erlking"  pranced  and  thumped. 
Now  and  then  he  stumbled  and  fell,  and 
the  fugitives  flew  fast  ahead. 

The  player's  face  was  grave  beyond 
belief,  filled  with  a  kind  of  fat  melan- 
choly, and  tinged  with  tragic  intent. 

The  faces  watching  it  passed  from 
question  to  amusement,  and  from  amuse- 
ment to  protest. 

"Nein,  nein,  mein  Herr!"  said  the 
countess,   as   she   wiped   her   mild   blue 

[III] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


eyes  and  shook  her  blond  curls.  "Nicht 
mehr  !  nicht  mehr !'' 

With  a  deep,  snorting  sob  the  sound 
ceased.  The  comb  dropped  from  his  lips, 
and  the  player  sat  regarding  them  sol- 
emnly. A  smile  curved  his  big  lips. 

"Ja,"  he  said  simply,  "that  was  great 
music.  I  have  made  it  myself,  that 
music." 


With  laughter  and  light  words  the 
party  broke  up.  At  a  touch  from  the 
count  the  musician  lingered.  The  others 
had  left  the  room. 

The  count  walked  to  the  open  window 
and  stood  for  a  moment  staring  into  the 
darkness.  Then  he  wheeled  about. 

"What  was  it  you  played.'^'*  he  said 
swiftly. 

"A  Hungarian  air,"  replied  Schubert 
briefly. 

The  count  looked  incredulous. 

[112] 


A  Window  of  Music 


"It  was  your  own,"  he  said. 

"Partly,"  admitted  the  musician. 

The  count  nodded. 

"I  thought  so."  He  glanced  toward 
the  piano.  "It  is  not  too  late " 

Schubert  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  told  the  child — you  heard — I  can- 
not play  it  again,  that  music." 

The  count  laughed  lightly. 

"As  you  like."  He  held  out  a  hand. 
"Good  night,  my  friend,"  he  said  cor- 
dially. "You  are  a  strange  man." 

The  grotesque,  sensitive  face  opposite 
him  quivered.  The  big  lips  trembled  a 
little  as  they  opened. 

"I  am  not  a  strange  man,"  said  Schu- 
bert vehemently.  "That  music — it  was 
—the  devil!" 

The  count  laughed  again  lightly.  He 
held  out  his  hand. 

"Good  night,"  he  said. 

[113] 


IV 


A 


SOFT  haze  hung  over  Zehtz.  The 
moonHght,  filtering  through  it,  touched 
the  paths  and  shrubs  with  shifting  radi- 
ance and  Hfted  them  out  of  shadow.  Un- 
der the  big  trees  the  darkness  lay  black, 
but  in  the  open  spaces  it  had  given  way 
to  a  gray,  elusive  whiteness  that  came 
and  went  like  a  still  breathing  of  the 
quiet  night. 

A  young  girl,  coming  down  one  of  the 
winding  paths,  paused  a  moment  in  the 
open  space  to  listen.  The  hand  that  held 
her  trailing,  shimmering  skirts  away 
from  the  gravel  was  strong  and  supple, 
and  the  face  thrown  back  to  the  moon- 
light wore  a  tense,  earnest  look;  but  the 
dark  eyes  in  their  curving  lids  were  like 
a  child's  eyes.  They  seemed  to  laugh 
subtly.  It  may  have  been  that  the  moon- 
light shifted  across  them. 

[114] 


A  Window  of  Music 


A  young  man,  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  smiled  to  himself  as  he 
watched  her.  He  stepped  from  beneath 
the  trees  and  crossed  the  open  space  be- 
tween them. 

The  girl  watched  him  come  without 
surprise. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  night,  Herr  Schu- 
bert," she  said  quietly  as  he  stood  be- 
side her. 

"A  wonderful  night,  my  lady,"  he  an- 
swered softly. 

She  looked  down  at  him. 

"Why  are  you  not  in  the  castle,  play- 
ing?" she  demanded  archly. 

"The  night  called  me,"  he  said. 

She  half  turned  away. 

He  started  forward. 

"Do  not  go,"  he  breathed. 

She  paused,  looking  at  him  doubtfully. 

"I  came  to  walk,"  she  said.  She  moved 
away  a  few  steps  and  paused  again,  look- 

[iiSl 


Unfinished  Portraits 


ing  back  over  her  shoulder.  "You  can 
come '* 

He  sprang  to  her  side,  and  they  paced 
on  in  silence. 

She  glanced   at  him  from  under  her 
lids. 

His  big  face  wore  a  radiant,  absent- 
minded  look.  The  full  lips  moved  softly. 

*'What  are  you  thinking  of?"  she  said 
swiftly. 

He  flushed  and  came  back  to  her. 
Only  a  little  song;  it  runs  in  my  head.'* 
Hum  it  to  me,"  she  commanded.    . 

He  flushed  again  and  stammered: 

"Nein,  nein;  it  is  not  yet  born." 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  shifting  light. 

"Will  you  play  it  to  me  when  it  is 
done?"  she  asked  softly. 

"You  know  that  I  will." 

She  waited  a  moment. 

"You  have  never  dedicated  a  song  to 

[u6] 


i(  > 


cc 


A  Window  of  Music 


me,"  she  said  slowly.  "There  are  the 
four  to  my  father — but  he  is  the  count; 
and  the  one  last  year  for  Marie — why 
to  Marie  ? — and  one  for  them  all.  But 
not  one  least  little  song  for  me!"  The 
words  had  dropped  under  her  breath. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  veiled.  No  one  could 
say  whether  they  laughed  now. 

He  looked  up  with  a  swift,  brusque 
gesture. 

"They  are  all  yours;  you  know  it." 
The  low  voice  rebuked  her  gently.  "For 
six  years  they  are  yours — all  that  I  have 
done."  The  face  was  turned  toward  her. 
It  was  filled  with  pleading  and  a  kind  of 
gentle  beauty,  clumsy  and  sweet. 

She  did  not  look  at  it. 

"There  is  one  that  I  should  like  to 
hear,"  she  said  musingly.  "You  played 
it  once,  years  ago,  on  a  comb.  I  have  not 
heard  it  since."  She  laughed  sweetly. 

[117] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Schubert  smiled.  The  hurt  look  stole 
from  his  eyes. 

"You  will  hear  It — my  'Erlkonig' .?" 
he  demanded. 

She  nodded. 

"I  will  play  It  to  you  when  I  come 
back,"  he  said  contentedly. 

She  stopped  short  In  the  path. 

"When  you  come  back!"  The  subtle 
eyes  were  wide.  They  were  not  laughing. 

"Ja,  I  shall— 


>> 


"Where  are  you  going?" 
He  rubbed  his  great  nose  In  the  moon- 
light. 

"Nein,  I  know  not.  I  know  I  must 

go " 

She  stopped  him  Impatiently. 

"You    will    not    go!"    she    said.    He 

turned  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her.  After 

a  moment  her  own  fell.  "Why  will  you 

go  .^"  she  asked. 

[ii8] 


A  Window  of  Music 


The  face  with  its  dumb  look  was 
turned  toward  her. 

"That  little  song — it  calls  me,"  he 
said  softly.  "When  it  is  done  I  will  come 
back  again — to  you." 

She  smiled  under  the  lids. 

"That  little  song — is  it  for  me.?"  she 
asked  sweetly. 

"Ja,  for  you."  He  looked  pleadingly 
at  the  downcast  face.  "The  song — it  is 
very  sweet;  it  teases  me." 

The  lids  quivered. 

"It  comes  to  me  so  close,  so  close!" 
He  was  silent,  a  rapt  look  of  listening  in 
his  face.  It  broke  with  a  swift  sigh. 
"Ach!  it  is  gone!" 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly. 

"I  thought  the  songs  came  quickly." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  others,  yes;  but  not  this  one. 
It  is  not  like  the  others.  It  is  so  sweet 

[  119] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


and  gentle — far  away — and  pure  like  the 
snow.  ...  It  calls  me — "  He  broke  off, 
gazing  earnestly  at  the  beautiful,  high- 
bred face,  with  its  downcast  eyes. 

^'Nein!  I  cannot  speak  it,"  he  said 
softly.  "But  the  song  it  will  speak  it  for 
me — when  I  come." 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  held  out  her 
hand  with  a  gesture  half  shy  and  very 
sweet. 

The  moonlight  veiled  her.  *'I  shall 
wait,"  she  said  gently — "for  the  song." 

He  held  the  slender  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment in  his  own;  then  it  was  laid  lightly 
against  his  lips,  and  turning,  he  had  dis- 
appeared among  the  shadows. 


[  120] 


fYiTiirs^iiiiiii  111!  Ill 'ii 'i  ii    II ■^MM^^^^Mwiiiii  II I I  Ti?r 


"Hallo,  Franz!  Hallo— there!" 

Two  young  men,  walking  rapidly  along 
the  low  hedge  that  shuts  in  the  Zum 
Biersack  from  the  highway,  lifted  heated 
faces  and  glanced  toward  the  enclosure, 
where  a  youth  seated  at  one  of  the  tables 
had  half  risen  from  his  place,  and  was 
gesticulating  with  the  open  book  in  his 
hand  to  vacant  seats  beside  him. 

*'It  is  Tieze,"  said  Schubert,  with  a 
smile.  ''Come  in." 

His  companion  nodded.  The  next  In- 
stant a  swift  waiter  had  served  them,  and 
three  round,  smiling  faces  surveyed  one 
another  above  the  foaming  mugs. 

''Ach!"  said  Tieze,  looking  more  criti- 
cally  at  the  shorter  man,  **but  you  have 
grown  thin,  my  friend.  You  are  not  so 
great.". 

[  121  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Schubert  smiled  complacently.  He 
glanced  down  at  his  rotund  figure. 

"Nein,  I  am  little/'  he  assented  affa- 
bly. 

His  companions  broke  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"  Drink  her  down,  Franz !  drink  her 
down!"  said  Tieze,  lifting  the  heavy 
stein. 

Schubert  wiped  the  foam  from  his  lips. 

''Ja,  that  is  good!"  He  drew  a  deep 
sigh. 

He  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  open 
volume  that  lay  by  his  companion's 
hand.  It  was  given  over  in  silence,  and 
he  dipped  into  it  as  he  sipped  the  beer, 
smiling  and  scowling  and  humming  softly. 
Now  and  then  he  lifted  his  head  and 
listened.  His  eyes  looked  across  the  noisy 
garden  into  space. 

His    companions    ignored    him.    They 

[  122] 


A  Window  of  Music 


laughed  and  chatted  and  sang.  Other 
young  men  joined  the  group,  and  the 
talk  grew  loud.  It  was  the  Sunday  fes- 
tival of  Warseck. 

Schubert  smiled  absently  across  the 
babel. 

"A  pencil — quick!"  he  said  in  a  low 
tone  to  Tieze.  His  hand  holding  the  open 
book  trembled,  and  the  big  eyes  glowed 
with  fire. 

Tieze  fumbled  in  his  pockets  and  shook 
his  head. 

Schubert  glared  at  the  careless  group. 

"A  pencil,  I  tell  you  !"  he  said  fiercely. 

There  was  a  moment's  lull.  Nobody 
laughed.  Some  one  thrust  a  stub  of  pen- 
cil across  the  table.  A  fat  young  man  sit- 
ting at  Schubert's  side  seized  it  and, 
drawing  a  few  music-bars  on  the  back 
of  a  programme,  pushed  it  on  to  him. 

"Ach!"  said  Schubert,  with  a  grateful 

[  123  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


sigh,  "Goot — goot!''  In  another  moment 
he  was  lost. 

The  talk  grew  louder.  Hurried  waiters 
rushed  back  and  forth  behind  his  chair 
with  foaming  mugs  and  slices  of  black 
bread,  and  gray  and  brown.  Fiddles 
squeaked,  and  skittle-players  shouted. 
Now  and  then  the  noise  broke  off  and 
changed  to  the  national  air,  which  the 
band  across  the  garden  played  loudly. 
But  through  it  all  Schubert's  big  head 
wagged  absently,  and  his  short-sighted 
eyes  glared  at  the  barred  lines  and  flying 
pencil. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  with  a 
snort.  His  spectacles  flew  to  his  forehead, 
and  his  round  face  smiled  genially  at  the 
laughing  group. 

"Done.?"  asked  the  fat  young  man 
with  a  smile.  He  reached  out  his  hand 
for  the  scrawled  page. 

[  124] 


A  Window  of  Music 


Schubert  drew  it  jealously  back. 

"Nein,"  he  said  quickly. 

Tieze,  who  had  come  around  the  table, 
stood  behind  them,  scanning  the  barred 
lines  and  the  scattered  shower  of  notes. 
He  raised  a  quick  hand  to  the  group 
about  the  table. 

"Gott  im  Himmel!"  he  said  excitedly. 
"Listen,  you  dunderheads!" 

Silence  fell  on  the  group.  Every  glance 
was  turned  to  him.  He  hummed  softly  a 
few  bars  of  sweetest  melody — under  the 
garden's  din.  .  .  .  The  notes  stopped  in 
a  choking  gasp,  Schubert's  hand  on  his 
throat. 

"Stop  that!"  he  said  hoarsely.  The 
paper  had  been  thrust  loosely  into  his 
coat  pocket.  His  face  worked  fiercely. 

Tieze  drew  back,  half  laughing,  half 
alarmed. 

"Franz  !  Franz  !"  he  said. 

[125] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  other  brushed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Ja,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  might  have 
killed  you." 

Tieze  nodded.  A  look  of  curiosity  held 
his  face. 

"It  is  schon!"  he  said  softly.  "Schon!" 

Schubert  turned  abruptly. 

''It  is  not  for  you.  .  .  .  For  years  I 
search  that  song,  over  mountains,  in  the 
storm,  in  the  sunshine;  but  it  has  never 
come — till  here.''  His  eye  swept  the 
crowded  place.  "Now  I  have  it" — he 
patted  the  rough  coat  pocket — "now  I 
have  it,  I  go  away.' 


)> 


[126] 


VI 


Ti 


HE  girl  sitting  on  a  rough  bench  by 
the  low  building  stirred  slightly.  She 
glanced  behind  her.  Deep  blackness  in 
the  wood,  shifting  moonshine  about  her. 
She  breathed  a  quick  sigh.  It  was  like 
that  other  night.  Ah,  he  would  not 
come ! 

Her  face  fell  forward  into  her  slender 
fingers.  She  sat  immovable.  The  shadow 
trembled  a  little,  but  the  girl  by  the  low 
house  was  blind  and  deaf.  Melodies  of 
the  past  were  about  her.  The  shadow 
moved,  but  she  had  no  eyes  to  see; 
slowly  it  travelled  across  the  short- 
cropped  grass,  mystically  green  and  white 
in  the  waning  moon.  Noiselessly  it  came; 
it  sank  noiselessly  into  the  shadow  of  the 
low  house.  A  sound  clicked  and  was  still. 
But  the  girl  had  not  moved — memory 

[  127] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


music  held  her.  It  moved  upon  her  spirit, 
low  and  sweet,  and  stirred  the  pulse,  and 
breathed  itself  away. 

She  stirred  a  little,  and  laid  her  cheek 
upon  her  palm.  Her  opened  eyes  rested 
carelessly  on  the  ground;  her  look  flashed 
wide  and  leaped  to  the  lattice  window 
beside  her,  and  back  again  to  the  ground. 
A  block  of  light  lay  there,  clear  and  de- 
fined. It  was  not  moonlight  or  dream- 
light.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  moved 
a  step  nearer  the  window.  Then  she 
stopped,  her  hand  at  her  side,  her  breath 
coming  quickly.  The  high,  sweet  notes 
were  calling  from  the  night.  Swiftly  she 
moved.  The  door  gave  lightly  beneath 
her  touch.  She  crossed  the  smooth  floor. 
She  was  by  his  side.  The  music  was  around 
them,  above  them,  shimmering.  It  held 
them  close.  Slowly  he  turned  his  big, 
homely  face  and  looked  at  her,  but  the 

[128] 


A  Window  of  Music 


music  did  not  cease.  It  hovered  in  the 
air  above,  high  and  pure  and  sweet.  The 
face  of  the  young  countess  bent  lower; 
a  look  of  tenderness  waited  in  her  subtle 
eyes. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  hands  out- 
stretched to  ward  it  off. 

''Nein.  It  is  not  /.  It  is  the  music. 
You  shall  not  be  bewitched !"  His  hands 
made  swift  passes,  as  if  he  would  banish 
a  spell. 

She  caught  them  to  her  and  waited. 

**Am  I  bewitched — ^Franz.'*"  she  said 
at  last.  The  voice  was  very  low.  The 
laughing  eyes  were  looking  into  his. 

"Ja,  you  are  bewitched,''  he  returned 
stoutly. 

"And  you?" 

*'I  have  only  love  for  you." 

"And  I  have  only  love  for  you,"  she 
repeated  softly.  She  hummed  a  bit  of  the 

[  129] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


melody  and  stopped,  looking  at  him 
sweetly.  "It  is  my  song,"  she  questioned 
— ''the  song  you  went  to  seek  for  me  ?" 

He  lifted  his  head  proudly. 

"It  came  for  you." 

She  nodded  with  brimming  eyes.  Her 
hands  stole  softly  up  to  the  big  face. 
They  framed  it  in,  with  its  look  of  pride, 
and  touched  it  gently.  "Dear  face!"  she 
breathed,  "dear  ugly  face — my  music 
face!" 

They  moved  swiftly  apart.  The  figure 
of  the  count  was  in  the  open  doorway. 

She  moved  forward  serenely  and  slipped 
her  hand  in  his. 

"I  am  here,  Father  Johann,"  she  said 
quietly. 

His  fingers  closed  about  the  white 
ones. 

"Go  outside,  Cara.  Wait  there  till  I 


come." 


[  130] 


A  Window  of  Music 


Her  dark,  troubled  eyes  looked  into 
his.  They  were  not  laughing  now. 

"Nay,  father,"  she  said  gently,  *'it  is 
you  who  will  wait  outside — ^while  we  say 
farewell." 

The  count  regarded  her  for  a  long  mo- 
ment, then  he  turned  toward  the  young 
musician,  his  face  full  of  compassion  and 
a  kind  of  envy. 

''My  friend,"  he  said  slowly,  "for  five 
minutes  I  shall  leave  her  with  you.  You 
will  go  away — forever." 

Schubert  bowed  proudly.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  girl's  face. 

As  the  door  closed,  she  turned  to  him, 
holding  out  her  hands. 

He  took  them  in  his,  and  they  stood 
silent,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

She  drew  a  long  breath. 

"What  do  people  say  when  they  are 
dying  ?"  she  asked. 

[131] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Nein,  I  know  not."  His  voice  trem- 
bled. 

"There  is  so  much,  and  it  is  nothing," 
said  the  girl  dreamily.  She  moved  a  step 
toward  the  piano,  his  hands  locked  fast 
in  hers.  "Tell  me  again  you  love  me!" 
she  whispered. 

He  took  off  the  great  spectacles,  and 
laid  them  beside  the  scrawled  page. 

"Look  in  my  eyes,"  he  said  gently.  A 
kind  of  grandeur  had  touched  the  homely 
features.  The  soul  behind  them  looked 
out. 

She  bent  toward  him.  A  little  sob 
broke  from  her  lips.  She  lifted  the  hands 
and  moved  them  swiftly  toward  the  keys. 

"Tell  me!"  she  said. 

With  a  smile  of  sadness,  he  obeyed  the 
gesture. 

Melody  filled  the  room.  It  flooded  the 
moonlight.  The  count,  pacing  back  and 

[  132] 


A  Window  of  Music 


forth,  halted,  a  look  of  bewilderment  in 
his  face.  He  stepped  swiftly  toward  the 
door. 

The  lights  on  the  piano  flared  uncer- 
tainly. They  fell  on  the  figure  at  the 
piano.  It  loomed  grotesque  and  grim, 
and  melted  away  in  flickering  shadow. 
Music  played  about  it.  Strains  of  sadness 
swept  over  it  in  the  gloom  and  drifted 
by,  and  the  sweet,  high  notes  rose  clear. 
A  little  distance  away  the  figure  of  the 
young  countess  stood  in  the  shifting 
light.  Her  clasped  hands  hung  before 
her.  She  swayed  and  lifted  them,  grop- 
ing, and  turned.  Her  father  sprang  to 
her.  Side  by  side  they  passed  into  the 
night.  The  music  sounded  about  them 
far  and  sweet. 

Franz  Schubert,  with  his  youth  and 
his  wreaths  of  fame,  his  homely  face  and 

[133  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


soul  of  fire,  is  dead  these  many  years; 
but  the  soul  of  fire  is  not  dead.  .  .  .  The 
Countess  Esterhazy,  framed  for  love,  is 
dust  and  ashes  in  her  marble  house.  The 
night  music  plays  over  her  tomb. 

The  night  music  plays  wherever  night 
is. 


[134] 


^  =jg=fl)-^' —  B> 


FREDERIC  CHOPIN— A 
RECORD 


^  =!a=o^£;=  Q> 


Frederic  Chopin— A  Record 

Paris,  October  6,  1837. 

It  has  rained  all  day.  No  one  has  been 
in.  No  fantasies  have  crept  to  my  soul. 
Nothing  to  break  the  ceaseless,  mo- 
notonous drip,  drip,  drip  on  my  heart. 
No  one  but  a  gar^on  from  the  florist's 
bringing  violets — the  great  swelling  bunch 
of  English  violets — Jane  Stirling's  vio- 
lets !  Heavens,  what  a  woman !  I  am 
like  her  now,  in  the  little  mirror  on 
my  desk.  Merely  thinking  of  her  has 
made  me  so !  The  great  aquiline  nose — 
the  shrewd,  canny  Scotch  look — and  the 
big  mouth — alas,  that  mouth !  When  it 
smiles  I  am  enraged.  Oh,  Jane !  Why 
dost  thou  haunt  me,  night  and  day,  with 
thy  devotion  and  thy  violets — and  thy 

[137] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


nose !  Let  women  be  gentle,  with  soft 
glances  that  thrill — soft,  dark  flames. 
Constantia's  glance  ?  Constantia  ?  Nay, 
fickle.  Fickle  moon  of  yesternight  that 
drips — drips — drips.  Will  it  never  cease  ! 
I  cannot  play  the  pain  away.  It  eats  into 
my  heart.  Yet  life  was  made  for  joy  and 
love — love — love — sweet  as  dream-light 
— sweet  as  music — sad  and  sweet  and 
gay — love  !  The  weariness  rests  upon  me. 
The  silver  clock  ticks.  It  chimes  the  pain. 
One — two — three — nine — ten.  The  night 
wears  slowly.  I  must  break  the  burden. 
I  will  look  into  a  woman's  face,  and  rest. 

Paris,  October  lo,  1837. 

It  was  a  thought  of  inspiration.  I 
threw  off  the  ugly  loose  coat  and  my 
ennui  together.  I  plunged  into  the  fra- 
grant bath.  Little  tunes  hummed  to  me 
as  I  rose  from  it.  I  put  on  clean,  fresh 

[138] 


Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 

linen — fine  as  silk — and  evening  dress. 
My  blood  coursed  freely,  and  the  scent 
of  violets  came  to  me  sweetly.  It  fol- 
lowed through  the  wet,  dripping  streets, 
and  clung  to  me  as  I  ascended  the  softly 
carpeted  stair  to  the  salon  of  the  Coun- 
tess Czosnowska.  I  was  merry  in  my  soul. 
Then  a  shadow  crossed  me.  It  fell  upon 
my  shoulder,  and  I  turned  in  fear  to 
look.  No  one — except  a  naked  Venus  on 
the  wall.  My  good  angel  drew  me  on.  I 
have  seen  her  thrice  since  then.  It  seems 
a  day.  She  came  and  looked  into  my 
eyes,  while  I  played.  It  was  fairy-music, 
witching  and  sweet — a  little  sad — the 
fairies  of  the  Danube.  My  heart  danced 
with  them  in  the  fatherland.  Her  eyes 
looked  into  mine.  Sombre  eyes — strange 
eyes.  What  did  they  say  ^.  She  leaned  for- 
ward on  the  piano,  gazing  at  me  passion- 
ately. My  soul  leaped  back  and  stood  at 

[  139] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


bay.  The  strange  eyes  smiled.  It  was 
a  man's  face — breadth  and  depth  and 
coarseness — and  the  strange,  sad  eyes. 
I  longed  for  them  and  shrank  upon  my- 
self. She  moved  away.  Later  we  spoke 
together — commonplaces.  Liszt  brought 
her  to  me,  where  I  was  sitting  alone. 
Camellias  framed  us  in.  A  sweet  shadow 
rested  on  my  heart.  She  praised  my 
playing — gently.  She  understood.  But 
the  strong,  sad,  ugly  face !  I  have  seen 
her  twice  since  then.  In  her  own  salon, 
with  the  noblest  minds  of  France  about 
her — and  once  alone.  Beautiful  face 
— haunting  sadness  !  Aurora — sweetest 
name  !  She  loves  me  !  Day-spring — loved- 
one  !  The  night  lags 

Paris,  November  5,  1838. 

We  are  to  go  away  together — to  the 
South.  There  is  a  strange   pain  at  my 

[  140] 


Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 

chest,  a  haunting  cough.  It  will  not  let 
me  go.  I  shall  escape  it — in  the  South. 
She  cares  for  me,  day  and  night.  Her 
sweet  breath !  My  mother's  face  is  sad 
in  my  dreams.  I  shall  not  dream  when 
the  sun  shines  warm  upon  me — in  the 
South 

Majorca,  November  i6,  1838. 

We  are  alone — two  souls — in  this  island 
of  the  sea.  The  surf  beats  at  night.  I  lie 
and  listen.  Jane  Stirling  came  to  see 
us  off.  She  brought  violets — great,  swell- 
ing English  violets.  I  smell  them  in  the 
mouldy  cloister  cells,  night  and  day. 
This  monks'  home  is  cold  and  bleak. 
The  wind  rattles  through  it,  and  at 
night  it  moans.  A  chill  is  on  me.  When  I 
cough  it  echoes  through  my  heart.  I 
love  the  light.  Sweet  music  waits  the 
light.  I  will  not  die.  The  shadow  haunts. 

[141] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


But  life  is  strong.  Jane's  violets  on  my 
grave !  I  will  not  die. 

Paris,  March  14,  1839. 

Paris — gay,  live  Paris !  The  cabs  rat- 
tle sweetly  on  the  stones.  I  can  breathe 
now.  The  funeral  dirge  will  wait.  In 
Marseilles  we  came  upon  Nourrit — dead. 
Poor  Adolphe !  He  could  not  bear  the 
weight.  A  crash  into  eternity !  I  knew  it 
all.  The  solemn  mass  ascended  for  his 
soul — and  high  above  it  all,  I  spoke  in 
swelling  chords — mystery — pain — ^justice 
— the  fatherland.  A  requiem  for  his  soul 
— for  Chopin's  soul  .^  And  Heine  smiles. 
Brave  Heine !  With  death  upon  his  heart 
— inch  by  inch  he  fights  it — with  laughs. 
I  saw  him  yestermorn.  His  great  eyes 
winked.  They  made  a  bet  at  me.  He  will 
outlast  us  yet,  he  swore,  ten  years. 
Brave  fight !  Shall  I  live  to  see  it  stop — 

[  142] 


Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 

gasp — the  last  quip  fail  on  sunny  lips  ?  I 
peer  into  the  years  between.  They  hang 
among  the  mists.  Aurora  comes.  It  is  a 
week.  Sweet  day-spring! 

NoHANT,  October  ii,  1839. 

They  tell  me  I  am  well.  The  cough  has 
ceased  and  the  pain.  But  deep  below,  it 
beats.  Aurora's  eyes  are  veiled.  Only 
when  I  play  will  they  glow.  They  fill  the 
world  with  light.  I  sit  and  play  softly 
— her  pen  moves  fast.  She  can  write  with 
music — music — over  her — around — Cho- 
pin's music,  whispered  low — but  clear  as 
love.  They  said  once  George  Sand  was 
clever.  It  is  Chopin's  touch  that  makes 
her  great.  It  eats  the  soul.  For  thee, 
Aurora,  I  could  crawl  upon  the  earth.  I 
would  not  mind.  I  give  thee  all.  I  ask  a 
glance — a  touch — a  smile  when  thou  art 
weary — leave  to  love  thee  and  to  make 

[143] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


sweet  music.  Thou  wilt  not  be  too  cruel, 
love — with  thy  veiled  eyes  ? 

NoHANT,  May  3,  1847. 

I  must  have  money.  I  am  a  burden — 
sick — a  cough  that  racks  the  soul.  Au- 
rora comes  but  seldom.  The  cough  hurts 
her.  She  is  busy.  I  do  not  look  into  her 
eyes.  I  lie  and  gaze  across  the  field.  It 
stretches  from  my  window — sunny, 
French  field !  Miles  away,  beneath  a  Po- 
lish sky,  I  see  my  mother's  eyes.  Unshed 
tears  are  heavy.  "Fritz,  little  Fritz,"  she 
calls  to  me,  "thou  wilt  be  a  great  musi- 
cian. Poland  will  be  proud  of  thee!" 
Poland — dear  land — proud  of  Frederic 
Chopin !  My  heart  is  empty.  It  aches. 


NoHANT,  June  i,  1847. 

It   is  over.   Life  has   stopped.   A  few 
years  more  or  less,  perhaps.  But  never 

[  144] 


Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 

life  again.  I  do  not  write  the  words. 
They  hammer  at  my  brain.  She  spoke  so 
sharply — and  my  soul  was  sick.  I  did 
not  think  she  could.  If  she  had  waited — 
I  would  not  have  tarried  long,  not  too 
long,  Aurora.  Hadst  thou  waited — weary 
of  the  burden,  the  sick  burden  of  my 
complaint !  Money — I  shall  work — 
Waltzes  that  the  public  loves — and  pays 
for.  Mazurkas  from  a  torn  heart !  I  shall 
work — a  little  while — 20,000  francs  to 
set  me  free !  I  will  die  free ! 

Paris,  June  10,  1847. 

Strange  fortune  that  besets  a  man ! 
The  20,000-franc  paper  is  in  my  hand. 
I  turn  it.  I  look  at  it.  Jane  Stirling 
and  her  goodness  haunt  my  gloom.  She 
only  asks  to  give.  Strange,  uncouth, 
Scotch  lady !  With  thy  heart  of  gold, 
thy  face  of  iron,  and  thy  foot  of  lead ! 

[145] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Thy  francs  lie  heavy  in  my  hand.  *' Mas- 
ter," she  writes  my  name.  She  only  asks 
to  give.  But  women  should  be  gentle, 
with  soft,  dark  eyes  that  thrill.  The  day 
has  closed.  I  shall  die  free ! 


Stirling  Castle,  Scotland, 

June  i6,  1848. 

I  am  lying  in  a  great  chamber  of  the 
castle.  The  house  is  still.  The  guests  have 
creaked  to  their  rooms.  The  last  hoarse 
voice  is  hushed.  When  I  played  for  them 
below,  my  fingers  twitched  and  my 
heart  ached  with  the  numbness.  I  could 
have  cried  with  weariness  and  pain.  The 
faithful  Daniel  lifted  me  like  a  child. 
He  has  undressed  me  and  laid  me  here 
among  the  swelling  pillows.  The  light 
burns  fitfully.  It  dances  among  the 
shadows.  Outside  the  bleak  Scotch  mist 

[146] 


Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 

draws  near.  It  peers  into  my  window. 
It  IS  Jane's  soul — soft  and  floating 
wool — and  clammy.  My  heart  is  ice — 
ingratitude  and  ice.  She  sits  beside  me 
all  the  day.  We  talk  of  music !  Strange, 
disjointed  talk — with  gaps  of  common 
sense — hero-worship — and  always  the 
flame  that  burns  for  me — slow  and  still. 
She  has  one  thought,  one  wish — to  guard 
my  days  with  sweet  content.  And  in  my 
soul  the  quenchless  fire  burns.  It  eats  its 
way  to  the  last  citadel.  I  have  not  long 
to  wait.  I  shall  not  cry  out  with  the  pain. 
Its  touch  is  sweet — like  death.  'TU  beat 
you  yet,"  brave  Heine  writes.  His  soul 
is  emptied.  But  the  lips  laugh.  Jane's 
slow  Scotch  eyes  keep  guard  at  death. 
My  lightest  wish  grows  law.  The  trea- 
sures of  my  j^/on— shall  they  be  hawked 
about  the  town?  "Chopin's  wash-basin 
— going ! — for  ten  sous — going  1"  My  pic- 

[147] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


tures,  caskets,  tapestries,  each  rug  and 
chair  that  I  have  loved,  and  the  great 
piano  with  its  voice  and  soul  of  love. 
She  will  guard  them.  Faithful  lady ! 
Cruel  one — my  soul  curses  thee,  crushes 
thee  forever — false  dawn  that  could  not 
stand  the  sun's  deep  kiss — Aurora.  Un- 
rest— unrest — will  it  never  cease  ^.  Shall 
I  lie  quiet  ?  There  will  be  Polish  earth 
upon  me.  The  silver  goblet  holds  it.  It 
is  here  beside  me  now.  I  reach  and  touch 
it  with  my  hand.  Dear  land  of  music  and 
the  soul !  The  silver  cupful  from  thy 
teeming  fields  is  always  near.  It  shall 
spill  upon  my  breast — upon  this  racked 
and  breathless  burden !  But  the  heart 
within  that  beats  and  burns — it  shall  be 
severed,  chord  by  chord — it  shall  return 
to  the  land  that  gave  it.  Dear  Poland !  I 
see  thee  in  the  mists — with  my  mother's 
brow  and  mouth  and  chin.  Poland  that 

[148] 


Frederic  Chopin — A  Record 


sings  and  weeps — sad  land.  My  heart  is 
thine  !  Cleanse  it  in  sweet-smelling  earth  ! 
In  thy  bosom  it  shall  rest — at  last — 
rest! 


[149I 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE 
GLOVE 


<6!  =^^:"  rt> 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


4ifa.  ==««• 


cc 


K 


O,    Tiziano !   Ala-ala-^o  /    Tizi-ah- 

no  r 

The  group  in  the  gondola  raised  a 
merry  call.  The  gondola  rocked  at  the 
foot  of  a  narrow  flight  of  steps  leading 
to  a  tall,  sombre  dwelling.  The  moon- 
light that  flooded  the  gondola  and  steps 
revealed  no  sign  of  life  in  the  dark  front. 

The  young  man  sitting  with  his  back 
to  the  gondolier  raised  the  call  again: 
"What,  ho  ! — Tiziano  !''  The  clear,  tenor 
voice  carried  far,  and  occupants  of  pass- 
ing gondolas  turned  to  look  and  smile  at 
the  dark,  handsome  youth  as  they  drifted 
past. 

The  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  opened 

[153] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


and  Titian  ran  lightly  down.  He  carried 
in  his  hand  a  small  lute  with  trailing 
purple  ribbons,  and  the  cap  that  rested 
on  his  thick  curls  was  of  purple  velvet. 
He  lifted  it  with  gentle  grace  as  he 
stepped  into  the  gondola  and  took  the 
vacant  seat  beside  a  young  woman  fac- 
ing the  bow  of  the  boat. 

Her  smiling  face  was  turned  to  him 
mockingly.  "Late  again,  Signor  Cevelli, 
and  yet  again  !"  She  plucked  at  the  strings 
of  a  small  instrument  lying  on  her  lap, 
and  the  notes  tinkled  the  music  of  her 
words. 

"Pardon,  Signora,  a  thousand  pardons 
to  you  and  to  your  gracious  lord!"  He 
bowed  to  the  man  opposite  him. 

"Giorgio  .?  Oh — Giorgio  doesn't  mind." 
Her  soft  lips  smiled.  "He's  too  big  and 
lazy.  He  never  minds."  Her  laugh  rose 
light  and  sweet.  The  three  men  joined  in. 

[154] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


The  boat  shot  into  midstream.  It 
threaded  its  way  among  the  briUiant 
craft  that  floated  in  the  moonhght,  or 
shot  by  them  under  vigorous  strokes. 
Many  glances  were  turned  toward  the 
boat  as  it  passed.  The  face  of  Titian  was 
well  known  and  that  of  the  woman  be- 
side him  was  the  face  of  many  pictures; 
while  the  big  man  opposite — her  hus- 
band— the  famous  Giorgione,  was  the 
favorite  of  art-loving  Venice.  It  was  a 
group  to  attract  attention  at  any  time. 
But  it  was  the  fourth  member  of  the 
group  that  drew  the  eyes  and  held  them 
to-night. 

He  was  a  stranger  to  Venice,  newly 
come  from  Rome — known  in  Venice 
years  ago,  it  was  whispered — a  mere  strip- 
ling. Now  the  face  and  figure  had  the 
beauty  and  the  strength  of  manhood.  .  .  . 
A  famous  courtesan  touched  her  red-gold 

[iSS] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


locks  and  laughed  sweetly  as  she  drifted 
by.  But  the  sombre,  dark  face  with  the 
inscrutable  eyes  and  the  look  of  power 
did  not  turn.  He  sat,  for  the  most  part, 
a  little  turned  away,  looking  at  the  waves 
dancing  with  leaden  lights  under  the 
moon  and  running  in  ripples  from  the 
boat.  Now  and  then  his  lips  curved  in 
a  smile  at  some  jest  of  his  companions,  or 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  the  woman 
opposite — and  filled  with  gentle,  wonder- 
ing light. 

Titian,  watching  him  from  beside  the 
young  woman,  marvelled  at  the  look  of 
mystery  and  the  strength.  He  leaned 
forward,  about  to  speak — but  Giorgione 
stayed  him  with  a  gesture. 

"The  Fondaco,"  he  said,  raising  his 
hand  to  the  gondolier.  "Ho,  there!  Halt 
for  the  Fondaco !" 

The  boat  came  slowly  to  rest  at  the 
foot  of  the  great  building  that  rose  white 

[iS6] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


and  gray  and  new  in  the  half  Hght. 
Giorgione's  eye  ran  lovingly  along  the 
front.  "To-morrow,"  he  said,  "we  begin 
the  last  frescos.  You,  Titian,  on  the  big 
facade  to  the  south,  and  Zarato  and 
I — "  He  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on 
the  arm  of  the  young  man  at  his  side, 
"Zarato  and  I  on  the  inner  court." 

The  youth  started  and  looked  up.  His 
eyes  studied  the  massive  walls,  with  the 
low,  arching  porticos  and  long  unbroken 
lines.  "A  noble  piece  of  work,"  he  said. 

Giorgione  nodded.  "German  and  Vene- 
tian mixed."  He  laughed  softly.  "With 
three  Venetians  at  the  frescos — we  shall 
see,  ah — we  shall  see  !"  He  laughed  again 
good-humoredly. 

The  boat  shot  under  the  Rialto  and 
came  out  again  in  the  clear  moonlight. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Giorgione,  looking 
back,  "to-morrow  we  begin." 

"To-morrow  Zarato  comes  to  me — for 


Unfinished  Portraits 


his  portrait/'  Titian  spoke  quickly,  al- 
most harshly.  His  eyes  were  on  the 
young  man's  face. 

The  gondola  stirred  slightly.  Every 
one  looked  at  the  young  man.  He  sat 
staring  at  Titian,  a  lo*(5k  half  amused  and 
half  perplexed  in  his  dark  eyes.  The  look 
broke  and  ran.  ''Is  it  so  l"  he  said  almost 
gayly. 

Titian  nodded  grimly.  "You  come  to 
me." 

Giorgione  leaned  forward.  "But  I  can't 
spare  him,"  he  pleaded.  "I  can't  spare 
you.  The  work  is  late,  and  the  Council 
hammer  at  a  man !  You  must  wait." 

"Just  one  day,"  said  Titian  briefly. 
"I  block  in  the  outlines.  It  can  wait  then 
— a  year,  six  months — I  care  not." 

Giorgione's  face  regained  its  look  of 
good-humor.  "But  you  are  foolish,  Titian, 
foolish !   Paint   doges,  if  you   will,  paint 

[158] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


popes  and  dukes — paint  gold.  But  never 
paint  an  artist — an  artist  and  a  gentle- 
man!" 

They  laughed  merrily  and  the  boat 
glided  on — out  into  the  lagoon  and  the 
broad,  flooding  moonlight. 

"Sing  something,"  said  Glorgione.  He 
raised  the  flute  to  his  lips,  breathing  into 
it  a  gay,  gentle  air.  The  lute  and  cith- 
ara,  from  the  opposite  side,  took  it  up. 
Presently  the  tenor  voice  joined  in,  carry- 
ing the  air  with  sweet,  high  notes.  They 
fell  softly  on  the  ear. 

The  slender  fingers  plucking  at  the 
cithara  faltered.  The  bosom  beneath  its 
white  tunic,  where  a  single  pansy  glowed, 
trembled  with  swift  breathing,  and  the 
red  lips  parted  in  a  quick  sigh. 

Titian  looked  up,  smiling  reproach- 
fully: "  Violante  !  ah,  Violante  !"  he  mur- 
mured softly. 

[IS9] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


She  shook  her  head  smiHngly.  A  tear 
rested  on  her  cheek.  *'I  cannot  help  it/' 
she  said;  "it  is  the  music." 

"Yes,  it  is  the  music,"  said  Titian. 
His  tone  was  dry — half  cynical. 

Her  husband  looked  over  with  faith- 
ful eyes  and  smiled  at  her. 

Only  Zarato  had  not  looked  up.  His 
eyes  followed  the  dancing  leaden  water. 
A  flush  had  come  into  his  sallow  cheek. 
But  the  moonlight  did  not  reveal  it. 

Violante  glanced  at  him  timidly. 

"Come,  we  will  try  again,"  she  said. 
She  swept  her  cithara,  and  the  tenor 
voice  took  up  the  notes.  "Faster!"  she 
said.  The  time  quickened.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"CAz  boit  et  ne  rehoit,  ne  cais  qua  boir 
soit/'  rang  out  the  voice. 

'^Qua  boir  soit — qua  boir  soit/^  repeated 
Violante  softly. 

[i6o] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


The  duet  rose,  full  and  sweet  and  clear, 
with  passionate  undertones.  Slowly  it 
died  away,  calling  to  itself  across  the 
lighted  water. 

The  two  men  applauded  eagerly. 
** Bella!"  murmured  Giorgione.  "Once 
more  ! — Bella  !"  He  clapped  his  hands. 

Again  the  music  rose.  Once  the  eyes  of 
the  singers  met — a  long,  slow  look.  The 
time  quickened  a  little,  and  the  music 
deepened. 

Titian  sat  watching  them,  his  head  in 
its  velvet  cap,  thrown  back  against  the 
cushions,  his  lips  smiling  dreamily.  His 
eye  strayed  over  the  voluptuous  figure  at 
his  side — the  snowy  tunic  and  the  ruby- 
red  bodice  and  skirt.  He  knew  the  figure 
well,  the  red-gold  hair  and  wondrous  eyes. 
But  a  new  look  had  come  into  them — 
something  tender,  almost  sweet. 


He  leaned  forward  as  the  music  ceased. 

[i6i] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


**You  shall  pose  for  me,"  he  said  under 
his  breath.  "I  want  you  for  the  Duke's 
picture." 

She  nodded  slightly,  her  bosom  rising 
and  falling. 

Giorgione  leaned  forward,  smiling. 

''What  is  that?"  he  asked.  His  eyes 
rested  tenderly  on  the  flushed  face  and 
the  full  lips  of  his  wife.  ''What  is  it  you 
say?" 

"I  want  her  for  Bacchante,"  said 
Titian,  "for  the  Duke's  picture."  He  had 
not  removed  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

Giorgione  smiled.  Then  his  face  dark- 
ened. "My  frescos!  Oh,  my  frescos!" 
he  murmured  tragically.  "But  you  will 
help,  Zarato.  You  will  not  go  paint  for 
dukes  and  popes?"  The  tone  was  half 
laughing  and  half  querulous. 

The  young  man  roused  himself  and 
looked  at  him  questioningly.  He  drew  his 

1 162] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


hand  across  his  eyes.  '*What  is  It?"  he 
said  dreamily.  "What  is  it.?"  His  face 
flushed.  "Help  you?  Yes,  I  will  help 
you — if — I  can." 


[163] 


II 

y\  LITTLE  more  to  the  right,  please." 

Titian's  eyes  studied  the  figure  before 
him  thoughtfully.  His  voice  murmured 
half-articulate  words,  and  his  glance  ran 
swiftly  from  the  sitter  to  his  canvas. 

"'That  is  good."  He  gave  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction.  *'Can  you  hold  that — ten 
minutes,  say!"  He  had  taken  up  his 
brush  and  was  painting  with  swift 
strokes. 

The  young  man  before  him  smiled  a 
little.  The  dark,  handsome  face  lighted 
under  it  and  glowed.  "I  will  do  my  best." 
The  quiet  irony  in  the  tone  laughed 
gently. 

Titian  smiled  back.  "I  forget  that  you 
are  of  the  craft.  You  have  too  much  of 
the  grand  air,  Zarato,  to  belong  to  us." 

"I    am   indebted    to   you!"   said   the 

[164] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


young  man  politely.  He  lifted  his  hand 
with  a  courtly  gesture,  half  mocking  and 
half  sincere.  It  dropped  easily  to  the 
console  beside  him. 

With  rapid  touches  Titian  sketched 
it  as  it  lay.  His  face  glowed  with  satis- 
faction, and  he  worked  with  eager  haste. 
''Good! — Good!"  he  murmured  under 
his  breath.  "It  will  be  great.  You  will 
see.  .  .  .  You  will  see."  He  hummed  softly 
to  himself,  his  glance  flashing  up  and 
down  the  tall  figure  before  him,  inserting 
a  touch  here  and  a  line  there,  with  swift 
decision. 

The  warm  air  of  the  studio  was  very 
quiet.  Voices  drifted  up  from  the  Grand 
Canal,  and  now  and  then  the  sound  of 
bells. 

The  young  man's  eyes  looked  dreamily 
before  him.  He  had  forgotten  the  studio 
and  its  occupant.  He  might  have  been 

[i6s] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


listening  to  pleasant  words — to  the  sound 
of  a  voice. 

''There!"  Titian  dropped  the  brush 
and  stepped  back.  "We  have  done  for  to- 
day." He  surveyed  the  canvas  critically. 

The  young  man  stepped  to  his  side. 
He  looked  earnestly  at  the  daubs  and 
lines  of  paint  that  streaked  it.  A  smile 
crept  over  his  dark  face.  *'You  paint  like 
no  other,"  he  said  quietly. 

Titian  nodded.  "Like  no  other,"  he 
repeated  the  words  with  satisfaction. 
"They  will  not  call  it  like  Palma,  this 
time — nor  like  Giorgione,  nor  Signor 
Somebody  Else."  He  spoke  with  mild 
irritation.  His  eyes  travelled  over  the 
lines  of  glowing  canvas  that  covered  the 
walls. 

The  young  man's  glance  followed 
them.  "No,"  he  assented,  "you  have 
outstepped  them  all.  .  .  .  You  used  them 

[i66] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


but  to  climb  on."  He  moved  toward  a 
canvas  across  the  room. 

"But  this — "  he  laid  his  hand  lightly 
on  the  frame — "this  was  after  Palma?" 
He  turned  his  eyes  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

Titian  nodded  curtly. 

"It  was  the  model — partly,"  he  said 
half  grudgingly. 

"I  know — Violante."  Zarato  spoke  the 
name  softly.  He  hesitated  a  moment. 
"Would  she  pose  for  any  one — for  me, 
do  you  think?" 

Titian  laughed  harshly.  "Better  not, 
my  boy — Better  not !  When  she  gets  into 
a  brush,  it  is  a  lost  brush,  Zarato — be- 
witched forever  !  Look  there — and  there 
— and  there!"  His  rapid  hand  flashed  at 
the  canvases. 

The  young  man's  eyes  followed  the 
gesture.  "The  result  is  not  so  bad,"  he 
said  gravely. 

[i67l 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Titian  laughed  back.  "Not  so  bad! . . ." 
He  studied  them  a  minute.  "You've  no 
idea  how  I  had  to  fight  to  keep  her  out — 
And,  oh,  that  hair !"  He  groaned  thought- 
fully, looking  at  the  canvases — "  Palma's 
worse!"  he  chuckled. 

The  young  man  started.  A  thought 
crossed  his  face  and  he  looked  up.  "And 
Giorgione?"  he  asked  doubtingly. 

Titian  shook  his  head  grimly.  "He 
married  her." 

The  young  man  moved  a  little  away. 
He  picked  up  a  small  book  and  mechan- 
ically turned  the  leaves. 

The  older  man  eyed  him  keenly. 

"Don't  mind  me,  Zarato."  He  said  it 
kindly,  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder.  "I  have  no  right  to  say 
anything  against  her — except  that  she's  a 
somewhat  fickle  woman,"  he  added  dryly. 

The  young  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on 

[  i68  1 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


the  page  before  him.  He  held  it  out, 
pointing  to  a  name  scrawled  on  the 
margin. 

Titian  took  it  in  his  hands,  holding  it 
gently,  and  turning  it  so  that  the  light 
fell  on  the  rich  binding.  "A  treasure!" 
he  said  enthusiastically. 

The  young  man  nodded.  ''An  Aldine 
— I  saw  that.  What  does  the  marking 
mean?''  He  asked  the  question  almost 
rudely. 

His  companion  turned  the  leaves. 
"It's  a  bacchanal  for  the  Duke,"  he 
said  slowly.  .  .  .  "I've  been  looking  up 
Violante's  pose. — Here  it  is."  He  read 
the  lines  in  a  musical  voice. 

A  heavy  frown  had  come  between  the 
handsome  eyes  watching  him.  "You'll 
not  paint  her  like  that  ?" 

"I  rather  think  I  shall,"  responded 
Titian  slowly.  "She  has  promised. 

1 169] 


j> 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"AndGiorgione?" 

"Giorgione  lets  her  do  as  she  likes. 
He  trusts  her — as  I  do."  He  laid  his  hand 
again  on  the  shoulder  near  him.  "I  tell 
you,  man,  you're  wrong.  Believe  in  her 
and — leave  her,"  he  said  significantly. 

The  shoulder  shrugged  itself  slightly 
away.  The  young  man  picked  up  his  hat 
from  the  table  near  by.  He  raised  it 
courteously  before  he  dropped  It  with  a 
little  laugh  on  the  dark  curls. 

"I  go  to  an  appointment,"  he  said. 


[170] 


III 

jl\  face  looked  over  the  balcony  rail- 
ing as  the  gondola  halted  at  the  foot  of 
the  steps.  It  smiled  with  a  look  of  satis- 
faction, and  the  owner,  reaching  for  a 
rose  at  her  belt,  dropped  it  with  a  quick 
touch  over  the  balcony  edge. 

It  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  young  man 
stepping  from  the  gondola,  and  caused 
him  to  bend  with  a  deep  flush.  It  touched 
his  lips  lightly  as  he  raised  himself  and 
lifted  his  velvet  cap  to  the  face  above. 

She  smiled  mockingly.  "You  are  late," 
she  said — "two  minutes  late!" 

"I  come!"  he  replied,  springing  up 
the  steps.  In  another  minute  he  was  be- 
side her,  smiling  and  flushed,  looking 
down  at  her  with  deep,  intent  gaze. 

She  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  divan. 
"Sit  down,"  she  said. 

[lyi] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


He  seated  himself  humbly,  his  eyes 
studying  hers. 

She  smiled  lazily  and  unfurled  her 
fan,  covering  her  face  except  the  eyes. 
They  regarded  him  over  the  fringe  of 
feathers. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"With  Titian." 

"Giorgione  wanted  you.  He  did  scold 
so — !"  She  laughed  musically. 

Zarato  nodded.  "I  go  to  him  to- 
morrow." 


"Has  Titian  finished?" 

"For  the  present —  He  will  lay  it 
away." 

"I  know,"  she  laughed,  " — to  mellow! 
.  .  .  How  did  you  like  it  ?" 

He  hesitated  a  second.  "It  was  a 
little  rough,"  he  confessed. 

"Always!"  The  laugh  rippled  sweetly. 

[  172  ] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


"Like  a  log  of  wood — or  a  heap  of  stones 
— or  a  large  loaf  of  bread." 

He  stirred  uneasily.  "Do  you  sit  to 
him  often?"  he  asked. 

Her  eyes  dwelt  for  a  moment  on  his 
face.  "Not  now,"  she  replied. 

He  returned  the  look  searchingly.  "You 
are  going  to  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  assented. 

He  still  held  her  eyes.  "I  don't  like 
it,"  he  said  slowly. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  came  into  her 
face.  Her  eyes  danced  in  the  shadow  of 
it.  "No?"  she  said  quietly. 

"No!" 

She  waited,  looking  down  and  pluck- 
ing at  the  silken  fringe  of  her  bodice. 
"Why?"  she  asked  after  a  time. 

He  made  no  reply. 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  He  was  look- 
ing away  from  her,  across  the  gay  canal. 

[  173  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


His  face  had  a  gentle,  preoccupied  look, 
and  his  lip  trembled. 

Her  glance  fell.  "Why  not.^''  she  re- 
peated softly. 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  his  face 
flushed.  "I  don't  know,'*  he  said.  He 
bent  toward  her  and  took  the  fan  from 
her  fingers. 

She  yielded  it  with  half  reluctance,  her 
eyes  mocking  him  and  her  lips  alluring. 

He  smiled  back  at  her,  shaking  his 
head  slightly  and  unfurling  the  fan. 
He  had  regained  his  self-possession.  He 
moved  the  fan  gently,  stirring  the  red- 
gold  hair  and  fluttering  the  silken  fringe 
on  her  bodice.  It  rose  and  fell  swiftly, 
moved  in  the  soft  current  of  air.  His  eyes 
studied  her  face.  "Will  you  sit  for  me 
some  day.^"  he  said. 

She  nodded  without  speaking.  The 
breath  came  swiftly  between  the  red  lips 

[174] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


and  the  eyes  were  turned  away.  They 
rested  on  the  facade  of  a  tall  building 
opposite,  where  a  flock  of  doves,  bilHng 
and  cooing  in  the  warm  air,  strutted  and 
preened  themselves.  Their  plump  and 
iridescent  breasts  shone  in  the  sun. 

Her  hand  reached  for  the  cithara  at 
her  side.  "Shall  I  sing  you  their  song.'^'' 
she  said,  "The  Birds  of  Venus." 

He  smiled  indulgently.  Her  voice 
crooned  the  words. 

"Sing!"  she  said  imperiously.  He 
joined  in,  following  her  mood  with  ready 
ease. 

There  was  silence  between  them  when 
the  song  was  done.  She  sat  with  her  eyes 
half  closed,  looking  down  at  the  white 
hands  in  her  lap. 

He  lifted  one  of  them  gently,  his  eyes 
on  her  face.  She  did  not  stir  or  look  up. 
He  raised  it  slowly  to  his  lips. 

[I7S] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  warm  breath  stirred  a  smile  on 
her  face.  She  glanced  at  him  from  under 
falling  lids. 

He  dropped  the  hand  and  stood  up 
with  a  half  cry. 

"I  must  go — Violante — I  must — go!'' 
He  groped  to  where  the  doorway  opened, 
cool  and  dark,  behind  them,  "I  must 
go,"  he  repeated  vaguely. 

She  rose  and  came  to  him  slowly. 
"You  must  go,"  she  said  softly. 

They  passed  into  the  dark,  open  door- 
way. 

Below,  in  the  hot  sun,  the  gondola 
rocked  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 


1 176] 


IV 


Ti 


HE  noon-bell  In  the  southern  turret 
of  the  Fondaco  chimed  softly.  A  painter 
at  work  on  the  facade  near  by  looked  up 
inquiringly  at  the  sun.  He  smiled  absently 
to  himself  and,  dropping  his  brushes,  de- 
scended lightly  from  the  scaffolding  to 
the  ground.  He  walked  away  a  few  steps 
— as  far  as  the  ground  permitted — and 
turned  to  look  at  the  work  above. 

"Not  so  bad,'*  he  murmured  softly, 
*' — not  so  bad  .  .  .  and  better  from  the 
water."  He  glanced  at  the  canal  below. 
A  white  hand  from  a  passing  gondola 
waved  to  him  and  motioned  approvingly 
toward  the  colors  of  the  great  wall. 

"Bravo,  Tiziano!"  called  some  one 
from  another  craft.  The  canal  took  up 
the  cry.  "Bravo,  bravo!  Bravo, — Ti- 
ziano ! 

[177] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Titian  raised  his  painter's  cap  and 
returned  the  salute.  He  stood  with  one 
foot  on  the  parapet,  looking  down  and 
smihug  with  easy  grace,  at  the  pleasure- 
loving  crowd  below.  A  man  came  in 
sight  around  the  corner  of  the  Fondaco, 
walking  slowly  and  looking  up  at  the 
picture  as  he  came. 

"Well.?"  Titian  glanced  at  him 
keenly. 

"Great!"  responded  Giorgione  heart- 
ily. "The  Judith  bears  the  light  well,  and 
when  the  scaffolding  is  down  it  will  be 
better  yet.  .  .  .  Venice  will  be  proud!" 
He  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  the 
other's  shoulder  and  motioned  toward 
the  throng  of  boats  that  had  halted  be- 
low, gazing  at  the  glowing  wall. 

"To-day  Titian — to-morrow  another  !" 
said  Titian  a  little  bitterly. 

"Why  care?"  responded  Giorgione. 
"Some    one    to-day    told    me   that    my 

[178] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


Judith,  on  the  south  wall  here,  sur- 
passes all  my  other  work  together."  He 
laughed  cordially. 

Titian  looked  at  him  keenly.  His  face 
had  flushed  a  little  under  the  compli- 
ment. **It  is  like  you  not  to  care,"  he 
said  affectionately. 

"Care!  Why  should  I  care — so  that 
the  work  is  done.f*"  His  eyes  rested  lov- 
ingly on  the  facade.  "It  is  marvellous — 
that  trick  of  light,"  he  said  wonderingly. 
.  .  .  "You  must  teach  it  to  me." 

Titian  laughed  under  his  breath.  "I 
learned  it  from  you." 

Giorgione  shook  his  head.  "Not  from 
me  ..."  he  replied  doubtingly.  "If  you 
learned  it  from  me,  others  would  learn 
from  me."  He  stood,  looking  up,  lost  in 
thought. 

"Where  is  Zarato?"  asked  Titian  ab- 
ruptly. 

Giorgione    started    vaguely.    A    flush 

[179] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


came  into  his  face.  "He  stopped  work — 
an  hour  ago/'  he  said. 

Titian's  eyes  were  on  his  face. 

The  open  friendhness  had  vanished. 
It  was  turned  to  him  with  a  look  of 
trouble.  *'Had  you  thought,  Cevelli — " 
His  speech  hesitated  and  broke  off.  He 
was  looking  down  at  the  dark  water. 

Titian  answered  the  unspoken  ques- 
tion. "Yes,  I  had  thought,"  he  said.  His 
voice  was  very  quiet. 

His  companion  looked  up  quickly. 
"He  is  with  her  now,  it  may  be.  .  .  . 
I  told  them  that  I  should  not  go  home 
at  the  noon-bell."  He  looked  about  him 
slowly — at  the  clear  sky  and  at  the  mov- 
ing throng  of  boats  below — 

"I  am  going  home."  He  spoke  the 
words  with  dull  emphasis. 

Titian  turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 
"The  gods  be  with  you,  friend !" 

[i8o] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


Giorgione  gripped  it  for  a  moment. 
Tears  waited  behind  the  eyes  and  clouded 
the  look  of  trust.  "I  could  bear  it  if — if 
Zarato  was  not  my  friend/'  he  said  as 
he  turned  away. 

"Keep  faith  while  you  may,"  said 
Titian,  following  him  a  step.  "He  who 
distrusts  a  friend  lends  thunderbolts  to 
the  gods,"  he  quoted  softly. 

"Remind  him  that  he  is  to  sit  for  me 
this  afternoon,"  he  called  more  lightly, 
as  the  other  moved  away. 

"I  will  remember,"  said  Giorgione 
soberly.  The  next  moment  he  had  disap- 
peared in  the  maze  of  buildings. 

Titian,  looking  after  him,  shook  his 
head  slowly.  He  turned  and  gathered  up 
some  tools  from  a  bench  near  by.  .  .  . 
The  look  in  his  friend's  eyes  haunted 
him. 


[i8i] 


I 


T  still  haunted  him  as  he  laid  out 
brushes  and  colors  in  his  studio  for  the 
appointed  sitting  with  Zarato. 

He  brought  the  canvas  from  the  wall 
and  placed  it  on  the  easel  and  stood 
back,  examining  it  critically.  His  face 
lighted  and  he  hummed  softly,  gazing  at 
the  rough  outline.  .  .  .  Slowly,  in  the 
smudge  of  the  vague  face,  gleaming  eyes 
formed  themselves — Giorgione's  eyes  ! 
They  looked  out  at  him,  pathetic  and 
fierce. 

With  an  exclamation  of  disgust  he 
threw  down  the  brush.  He  looked  about 
him  for  his  cap,  and  found  it  at  last — on 
the  back  of  his  head.  He  settled  it  more 
firmly  in  place.  "There  will  be  time," 
he  muttered.  ''I  shall  be  back  in  time." 
With  a  swift  glance  about  him  he  was 

[182] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


gone  from  the  room,  and  on  the  way  to 
Giorglone's  studio. 

As  he  opened  the  door  he  saw  Gior- 
glone's great  figure  huddled  together 
against  the  eastern  window.  Bars  of  light 
fell  across  it  and  danced  on  the  floor. 
Titian  crossed  the  studio  quickly  and 
touched  the  bent  shoulder. 

The  eyes  that  looked  up  were  those 
that  had  called  him.  Giorgione's  eyes — 
a  fierce,  pathetic  light  in  their  depths. 
They  gazed  at  him  stupidly.  "What  is 
It}''  asked  the  man.  He  spoke  thickly 
and  half  rose,  gazing  curiously  about  the 
room.  He  ran  a  hand  across  his  forehead 
and  looked  at  Titian  vaguely.  *'What  is 
it  ?"  he  repeated. 

Titian  fell  back  a  step.  **  That's  what 
I  came  to  find  out,"  he  said  frankly. 
He  was  more  startled  than  he  cared  to 
show. 

[183] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"What  has  happened,  Giorgione?" 
His  tone  was  gentle,  as  if  speaking  to  a 
child,  and  he  took  him  by  the  shoulder 
to  lead  him  to  a  seat. 

For  a  moment  the  man  resisted.  Then 
he  let  himself  be  led,  passively,  and  sank 
back  in  the  chair  with  a  hoarse  sigh.  He 
looked  about  the  studio  as  if  seeking 
something — and  afraid  of  it.  "She's 
gone!"  he  whispered. 

Titian  started.  "No!" 

Giorgione  laughed  harshly.  "Fled  as 
a  bird,"  he  said  gayly,  "a  bird  that  was 
snared."  He  hummed  a  few  bars  of  the 
song  and  stopped,  his  gaze  fixed  on 
vacancy.  A  great  shudder  broke  through 
him,  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
There  was  no  movement  but  the  heave 
of  his  shoulders,  and  no  sound.  The  light 
upon  the  floor  danced  in  the  stillness. 

Titian's  eyes  rested  on  it,  perplexed. 

[184] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


He  crossed  the  room  swiftly  and  touched 
a  bell.  He  gave  an  order  and  waited  with 
his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder  till  the 
servant  returned. 

"Drink  this,"  he  said  firmly,  bending 
over  him.  He  was  holding  a  long,  slender 
glass  to  his  lips. 

The  man  quaffed  it — slowly  at  first, 
then  eagerly.  "Yes,  that  is  good!"  he 
said  as  he  drained  the  glass.  "I  tremble 
here."  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
"And  my  hand  is  strange."  He  smiled — 
a  wan,  wintry  smile — and  looked  at  his 
friend  with  searching  eyes. 

"Where  have  they  gone.?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Titian  shook  his  head.  "How  should  I 
know?" 

"He  said  he  was  going  to  you." 

"Zarato?"  Titian  started.  "For  the 
portrait —  He  will  be  there !" 

[i8S] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


t( 


Giorgione  broke   into   a   harsh   laugh. 
No  portrait  for  Zarato!"    He  said  it 
exultantly. 

"What  do  you  mean  !" 
He  bears  a  beauty  mark."  He  laughed 


(( 


agam. 

"You  did  not ?" 

Giorgione  glanced  cunningly  about  the 
studio.  His  big  face  worked  and  his  eyes 
were  flushed.  He  laid  his  hand  on  his  lips. 

"Hush!''  he  said.  "It  is  a  secret — I — 
she — branded  him  with  this."  A  piece  of 
heavy  iron  lay  on  the  sill — the  wood  near 
it  blackened  and  charred.  He  took  it  up 
fondly. 

"Look!"  He  pointed  to  the  fire-worn 
end. 

Titian  shrank  back  in  horror.  "You  are 
mad !"  he  said. 

Giorgione  shook  his  head  sadly.  "I 
wish   I   were   mad   .   .   .   my  eyes   have 

[i86] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


seen  too  much/'  He  rubbed  his  hand 
across  them  vaguely. 

''Sleep — "  he  murmured.  "A  Httlc 
sleep.''  The  potion  was  beginning  to  take 
effect. 

Titian  laid  him  on  the  couch  near  by 
and  hurried  from  the  studio. 

"Home!"  he  said  to  the  white-robed 
gondoHer  who  looked  back  for  orders. 
"Home!  Row  for  life!" 

A  sense  of  vague  horror  haunted  him. 
He  dared  not  think  what  tragedy  might 
be  enacting.  A  man  of  Zarato's  proud 
spirit —  "Faster!"  he  called  to  the  la- 
boring gondolier,  and  the  boat  shot  un- 
der the  awning. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  closed  the  door 
of  his  studio  behind  him.  .  .  .  On  the 
couch  across  the  room,  his  cap  fallen  to 
the  floor  and  his  arms  hanging  at  his 
sides,  lay  the  young  man  asleep.  Titian 

[187] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


moved  forward,  scanning  eagerly  the 
dark,  handsome  face.  Deep  shadows  lay 
under  the  closed  lids,  and  a  look  of 
scornful  suffering  touched  the  lines  of 
the  mouth.  Slowly  his  eyes  traversed  the 
figure.  He  gave  a  start  and  bent  closer, 
his  eyes  peering  forward.  .  .  .  The  left 
hand  trailing  on  the  floor  was  gloved, 
but  above  the  low  wrist  a  faint  line  shot 
up — a  blotch  on  the  firm  flesh. 

With  an  exclamation  of  horror  he 
dropped  to  his  knees  and  lifted  the  hand. 

It  rested  limply  in  his  grasp. 

Slowly  the  eyes  opened  and  looked 
out  at  him.  A  faint  flush  overspread  the 
young  man's  face.  He  withdrew  the  hand 
and  sat  up.  "I  came  to  tell  you  the  por- 
trait— must  wait,"  he  said  apologetically, 
"I  fell  asleep."  He  picked  up  his  cap 
from  the  floor  and  smoothed  its  ruffled 
surface.  ''I  must  go  now."   He  looked 

[i88] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


awkwardly  at  his  friend  and  got  to  his 
feet. 

"Zarato,"  said  Titian  sternly.  "Where 
is  she?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know/' 
slowly. 

"You  don't  know!  She  has  left 
home " 

"But  not  with  me." 

The  two  men  stood  staring  at  each 
other. 

There  was  a  sound  of  steps  in  the  hall 
and  the  door  swung  open.  It  was  a  group 
of  Venetian  boatmen,  bearing  in  their 
midst  a  wet,  sagging  form.  The  red-gold 
hair  trailed  heavily.  They  moved  stolidly 
across  the  room  and  laid  their  burden 
on  the  low  bench.  The  oldest  of  them 
straightened  his  back  and  looked  apolo- 
getically at  the  wet  marks  on  the  shining 
floor. 

[189] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


''He  said  to  bring^her  here,  Signor." 
He  motioned  clumsily  toward  the  wet 
figure.  "He  said  so/' 

Who  said  it  ?"  said  Titian  harshly. 
Signor —  The  Signor — Giorgione.  .  .  . 
We  took  her  there.  He  would  not  let  us 
in.  He  stood  at  the  window.  He  was 
laughing.  He  said  to  bring  her  here," 
ended  the  old  man  stolidly.  ''She  is  long 
dead."  He  bent  to  pick  up  the  heavy 
litter.  The  group  shuffled  from  the  room. 

Slowly  the  young  man  crossed  to  the 
bench.  He  knelt  by  the  motionless  figure 
and,  drawing  the  glove  from  his  hand, 
laid  it  on  the  breast  that  shone  in  the 
wet  folds. 

"I  swear,  before  God — "  he  said  .  .  . 
"before  God!"  He  swayed  heavily  and 
fell  forward. 

The  artist  sprang  to  his  side.  As  he 
touched  him,  his  eye  fell  on  the  ungloved 

[  190] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


hand.  .  .  .  Shuddering,  he  reached  over 
and  hfted  the  glove  from  the  wet  breast. 
He  drew  it  over  the  hand,  covering  it 
from  sight. 


[t9i] 


VI 

1  OU  must  go!"  said  Titian  sternly. 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  dully, 
almost  appealingly.  He  shook  his  head. 
"I  have  work  to  do." 

Titian  lifted  an  impatient  hand.  "The 
people  will  not  permit  it — I  tell  you!" 
He  spoke  harshly.  "Giorgione  is  their 
idol.  It  has  been  hard  to  keep  them — 
this  one  week !  Only  my  promise  that 
you  go  at  once  holds  them," 

The  young  man  smiled,  a  little  cyni- 
cally. *'Do  you  think  I  fear  death — I 
crave  it !"  His  arms  fell  at  his  sides. 

His  companion  looked  at  him  intently. 
"What  is  your  plan.^"'  he  asked  shortly. 

"Giorgione — "  The  voice  was  tense. 
"He  shall  pay — to  the  uttermost!" 

"For  that?"  Titian  made  a  motion 
toward  the  gloved  hand. 

[  192] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


The  young  man  raised  It  with  a  scorn- 
ful gesture. 

"For  that" — he  spoke  sternly — "I 
would  not  touch  the  dog.  It  is  for  her!" 
His  voice  dropped. 

Titian  waited  a  moment.  "What  would 
you  do .?"  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

The  young  man  stirred.  "I  care  not. 
He  must  suffer — as  she  suffered,"  he 
added  with  slow  significance. 

"Would  that  content  you?  Would  you 
go  away — and  not  return  ? " 

"I  would  go — yes." 

Titian  waited,  his  eyes  on  the  gloved 
hand.  "You  can  go,"  he  said  at  last, 
"the  Lord  has  avenged  her." 

The  young  man  leaned  forward.  His 
breath  came  sharply.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"That  she  is  avenged,"  said  Titian 
slowly.  "Giorgione  cannot  live  the  year. 
Go  away.  Leave  him  to  die  in  peace." 

[  193  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


*'I  did  not  ask  for  peace/'  said  the 
young  man  grimly. 

Titian  turned  on  him  fiercely.  "His 
heart  breaks.  He  dies  drop  by  drop !" 

The  young  man  smiled. 

Titian  watched  him  closely.  ''You 
need  not  fear  his  not  suffering,"  he  said 
significantly.  "Go  watch  through  his 
window,  or  by  a  crack  in  the  door,'' — 
He  waited  a  breath.  "The  man  is  mad  !" 

The  young  man  started  sharply. 

"Mad!"  repeated  Titian. 

Zarato  turned  on  him  a  look  of  hor- 
ror and  exultation.  "Mad!"  he  repeated 
softly.  The  gloved  hand  trembled. 

A  look  of  relief  stole  into  Titian's  face. 
"Does  that  satisfy  you.''"  he  asked 
quietly.  "Will  you  go.?" 

"Yes,  I  will  go."  The  young  man  rose. 
He  moved  toward  the  door.  "Mad!"  he 
whispered  softly. 

[  194] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


"Wait,"  said  Titian.  He  sprang  before 
him.  "Not  by  daylight — you  would  be 
murdered  in  the  open  street !  You  must 
wait  till  night.  ...  I  shall  row  you,  my- 
self, out  from  the  city.  It  is  arranged.  A 
boat  waits  for  you." 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  grate- 
fully. "You  take  this  risk  for  me?"  he 
said  humbly. 

"For  you  and  Giorgione  and  for — her." 

They  sat  silent. 

"He  will  never  paint  again,"  said  the 
young  man,  looking  up  quickly  with  the 
thought. 

Titian  shook  his  head.  "Never  again," 
he  said  slowly. 

The  young  man  looked  at  him.  "There 
are  a  dozen  pictures  begun,"  he  said,  "a 
dozen  and  more." 

"Yes." 

"Who  will  finish  them?" 

[195] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Who  can  tell?"  The  painter's  face 
had  clouded. 

"Shall  you?'' 

Titian  returned  the  suspicious  gaze 
frankly.  "It  is  not  likely,"  he  said.  "He 
will  not  speak  to  me  or  see  me.  He  says 
I  am  false  to  him — I  harbor  you." 

The  young  man's  gaze  fell.  "I  will  go," 
he  said  humbly.  He  shivered  a  little. 
And  not  return  till  I  send  for  you." 
I  will  not  return — till  you  send  for 


me! 


>> 


[196] 


-Hff. =S=======i— — — ^^^^ 

VII 

V  ENICE  laughed  In  the  sunshine. 
Gay-colored  boats  flitted  here  and  there 
on  the  Grand  Canal,  and  overhead  the 
birds  of  Venus  sailed  in  the  warm  air. 

A  richly  equipped  gondola,  coming 
down  the  canal,  made  its  way  among 
the  moving  boats.  Its  occupant,  a  dark, 
handsome  man,  sitting  alone  among  the 
crimson  cushions,  looked  out  on  the 
hurrying  scene  with  watchful  eyes.  Other 
eyes  from  passing  gondolas  returned  the 
glance  with  curious,  smiling  gaze  and 
drifted  past.  No  one  challenged  him  and 
none  remembered.  Two  years  is  overlong 
for  laughing  Venice  to  hold  a  grudge  or 
to  remember  a  man — ^when  the  waters 
close  over  him.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  boat 
drifted  on,  and  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
man  feasted  on  the  flow  and  change  of 

[197] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


color.  .  .  .  "Bride  of  the  Sea/*  he  mur- 
mured as  the  boat  swept  on.  "Bride  of 
the  Sea — There  is  none  Hke  thee  in  beauty 
or  power  !"  His  eyes,  rapt  with  the  vision, 
grew  misty.  He  raised  an  impatient  hand 
to  them,  and  let  it  fall  again  to  his  knee. 
It  rested  there,  strong  and  supple.  The 
seal  of  a  massive  ring  broke  its  whiteness. 
The  other  hand,  incased  in  a  rich  glove, 
rested  on  the  edge  of  the  gondola.  The 
man's  eyes  sought  it  for  a  moment  and 
turned  away  to  the  gay  scene. 

With  a  skilful  turn  the  boat  had  come 
to  rest  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stairs 
leading  to  a  richly  carved  doorway.  The 
young  man  leaped  out  and  ran  up  the 
steps.  The  great  silent  door  swung  open 
to  his  touch,  and  he  disappeared  within. 

Titian,  standing  by  his  easel,  looked 
up  quickly.  "You  are  come !"  He  sprang 
forward,  holding  out  his  hands. 

[198] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


The  young  man  took  them,  looking 
Into  the  welcoming  eyes.  "I  am  come/' 
he  said  slowly. 

"Why  did  you  send  for  me  ?"  he  asked 
after  a  pause.  His  eyes  sought  the  glow- 
ing walls  of  color,  with  curious,  eager 
glance. 

"Nothing  there!''  The  painter  shook 
his  head  with  a  wistful  smile.  "I  have 
not  done  a  stroke  since  that  last  night — 
the  night  I  rowed  you  out  to  the  lagoon." 

"Why  not.?"  They  were  seated  by  a 
window;  the  tide  of  life  drifted  below. 

Titian  shook  his  head  again.  "I  was 
broken  at  first — too  strained  and  weak. 
My  fingers  would  not  follow  my 
thoughts."  He  glanced  down  at  them 
ruefully.  "And  then — "  His  voice 
changed.  "Then  they  came  for  me  to 
finish  his  pictures.  .  .  .  There  has  been 
no  time." 


[199] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Did  he  want  you  to  do  it?"  asked 
the  other  in  a  low  voice. 

Titian's  gaze  returned  the  question. 
"I  shall  never  know —  He  would  not  see 
me — to  the  last.  He  never  spoke.  .  .  . 
When  he  was  gone  they  came  for  me.  I 
did  the  work  and  asked  no  questions — for 
friendship's  sake."  He  sighed  gently  and 
his  glance  fell  on  the  moving,  changing 
crowd  below. 

"His  name  is  water,"  he  said  slowly. 
"Ask  for  the  fame  of  Giorgione —  They 
will  name  you — Titian!"  He  laughed 
bitterly. 

The  young  man's  smile  had  little 
mirth  in  it.  "We  are  all  like  that.  .  .  ." 
He  turned  to  him  sharply:  "Why  did 
you  want  me  ?" 

The  painter  roused  himself.  "To  sit 
for  me" — ^with  a  swift  look.  "I  am 
hunted  !  I  cannot  wipe  away  your  face — 

[200] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


as  it  looked  that  night.  I  paint  nothing. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  when  you  are  done  in  oil  I 
shall  rest  easy."  He  laughed  shortly  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

The  young  man  rose  also  with  a  cour- 
teous gesture  of  the  supple  hand.  "I  am 
at  your  service,  Signor  Cevelli,  now  and 
always." 

Titian's  eyes  swept  the  graceful  fig- 
ure. "I  must  begin  at  once."  He  turned 
away  to  an  easel. 

"There  was  a  picture  begun,  was  there 
not  ?"  asked  the  young  man.  He  had  not 
moved  from  his  place. 

Titian  looked  up  swiftly.  "Yes,"  he 
said.  "Yes." 

"Why  not  finish  that?" 

The  painter  waited  an  awkward  mo- 
ment. He  crossed  the  room  and  fumbled 
among  the  canvases.  Then  he  brought 
it  and  placed  it  on  the  easel,  looking  at 

[201  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


it.  .  .  .  Slowly  the  look  changed  to  one 
of  pride,  and  his  hand  reached  out  for  a 
brush. 

The  young  man  moved  to  his  side. 
They  looked  at  it  in  silence. 

"You  will  not  do  better."  The  young 
man  spoke  with  decision.  "Best  finish  it 
as  it  stands — I  am  ready."  He  moved  to 
his  place  by  the  console,  dropping  his 
hand  upon  it  and  standing  at  ease. 

Titian  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  "We 
shall  change  the  length  and  perhaps  the 
pose,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"Why?"  The  question  came  sharply. 

The  painter  colored  under  it.  "I  had 
planned — to  make  much  of  the — hands." 
He  hesitated  between  the  words.  "The 
change  will  be  simple,"  he  added  hastily. 

"Would  you  mind  painting  me  as  I 
am .?"  There  was  a  note  of  insistence  be- 
hind the  words. 

[  202  ] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


Titian's  eyes  leaped  at  the  question. 
They  scanned  the  figure  before  him  with 
quick,  gleaming  lights. 

The  young  man  read  their  depths. 
"Go  on/'  he  said  coolly.  "When  my 
feelings  are  hurt  I  will  tell  you." 

The  painter  took  up  his  brushes, 
working  with  swift  haste.  Fingers  and 
brush  and  thumb  flew  across  the  can- 
vas. Splotches  of  color  were  daubed  on 
and  rubbed  carelessly  in  and  removed 
with  infinite  pains.  Over  the  picture  crept 
a  glow  of  living  color  and  of  light. 

At  last  the  brush  dropped.  "I  can  do 
no  more — to-day,"  he  said  slowly.  His 
eyes  dwelt  on  the  picture  lovingly. 

The  young  man  came  across  and  joined 
him,  looking  down  at  the  glowing  can- 
vas. His  lips  curved  in  a  sweet  smile. 

"You  thought  I  was  ashamed  of  it.^" 
The   gloved   hand   lifted   itself  slightly. 

[203  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


''I  would  not  part  with  it — not  for  all 
the  gold  of  Venice  !" 

The  painter's  eyes  were  on  it,  doubt- 
ingly.  ''But  you  wear  it  gloved/'  he 
stammered. 

"It  is  not  for  the  world  to  see/'  mur- 
mured the  young  man  quietly.  "It  is  our 
secret — hers  and  mine.  It  was  her  last 
touch  on  my  hand." 

Titian's  eyes  stared  at  him. 

"You  did  not  know?"  The  lips  smiled 
at  him.  "It  was  her  hand  that  did  it." 
He  touched  the  glove  lightly.  "Giorgione 
stood  over  her — and  guided  it.  ..."  His 
voice  ceased  with  a  catch. 

Titian's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "  Poor 
Violante!"  he  murmured.  "Poor  child!" 

The  other  nodded  slightly.  "It  has 
pledged  us  forever — forever."  He  re- 
peated the  words  in  low,  musical  exulta- 
tion. The  locket  suspended  from  its  slen- 

[204] 


The  Man  With  the  Glove 


der  chain  amid  the  folds  of  his  cloak, 
swung  forward  as  he  moved.  A  hand 
stayed  it — the  gloved  hand. 

There  was  silence  between  them. 
Voices  from  the  canal  floated  up,  laughter- 
laden.  The  June  sunshine  flooded  in. 

Titian  roused  himself  with  a  sigh.  "It 
shall  be  called  'The  Portrait  of  a  Gentle- 
man,'" he  said.  He  laid  his  hand  with 
swift  affection  on  the  arm  beside  him. 

The  young  man  smiled  back.  His  hand 
closed  firmly  over  the  one  on  his  arm. 
"Call  it  'The  Man  With  the  Glove,"'  he 
said  quietly.  "It  is  the  open  secret  that 
remains  unguessed." 


[205  ] 


THE  LOST  MONOGRAM 


^8  ^g"  ==St> 

The  Lost  Monogram 


■*^  '^^ 


X  HE  woman  seated  in  the  light  of  the 
low,  arched  window  was  absorbed  in  the 
piece  of  linen  stretched  on  a  frame  be- 
fore her.  As  her  fingers  hovered  over  the 
brilliant  surface,  her  eyes  glowed  with 
a  look  of  satisfaction  and  lighted  the 
face,  making  it  almost  handsome.  It  was 
a  round,  smooth  face,  untouched  by 
wrinkles,  with  light-blue  eyes — very  near 
the  surface — and  thin,  curved  lips. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  to  sur- 
vey her  work,  and  her  lips  took  on  a 
deeper  curve.  Then  they  parted  slightly. 
Her  face,  with  a  look  of  listening,  turned 
toward  the  door. 

The  young  man  who  entered  nodded 

[209] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


carelessly  as  he  threw  back  the  blue- 
gray  cloak  that  hung  about  his  shoul- 
ders and  advanced  into  the  room. 

She  regarded  the  action  coldly.  "I 
have  been  waiting,  Albrecht."  She  spoke 
the  words  slowly.  ''Where  have  you 
been?" 

"I  see."  He  untied  the  silken  strings 
of  the  cloak  and  tossed  it  from  him.  "I 
met  Pirkheimer — we  got  to  talking." 

The  thin  lips  closed  significantly.  She 
made  no  comment. 

The  young  man  crossed  the  room  and 
knelt  before  a  stack  of  canvases  by  the 
wall,  turning  them  one  by  one  to  the 
light.  His  full  lips  puckered  in  a  half 
whistle,  and  his  eyes  had  a  dreamy 
look. 

The  woman  had  returned  to  her  work, 
drawing  in  the  threads  with  swift  touch. 

As  the  man  rose  to  his  feet  her  eyes 

[210] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


flashed  a  look  at  the  canvas  in  his  hand. 
'They  fell  again  on  her  work,  and  her  face 
ignored  him. 

He  placed  the  canvas  on  an  easel  and 
stood  back  to  survey  it.  His  lips  whistled 
softly.  He  rummaged  again  for  brushes 
and  palette,  and  mixed  one  or  two  colors 
on  the  edge  of  the  palette.  A  look  of 
deep  happiness  filled  his  absorbed  face. 

She  lifted  a  pair  of  scissors  and  snipped 
a  thread  with  decisive  click.  "Are  you 
going  on  with  the  portrait?'*  she  asked. 
The  tone  was  clear  and  even,  and  held 
no  trace  of  resentment. 

He  looked  up  absently.  "Not  to-day," 
he  said.  "Not  to-day."  His  gaze  re- 
turned to  the  easel. 

The  thin  lips  drew  to  a  line.  They  did 
not  speak.  She  took  off  her  thimble  and 
laid  it  in  its  velvet  sheath.  She  gathered 
up  the  scattered  skeins  of  linen  and  silk, 

[211] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


straightening  each  with  a  little  pull,  and 
laid  them  in  the  case.  She  stabbed  a 
needle  into  the  tiny  cushion  and  dropped 
the  scissors  into  their  pocket.  Then  she 
rose  deliberately,  her  chair  scraping  the 
polished  boards  as  she  pushed  it  back 
from  the  frame. 

He  looked  up,  a  half  frown  between  the 
unseeing  eyes. 

She  lifted  the  embroidery-frame  from 
its  rest  and  turned  toward  the  door.  *'I 
have  other  work  to  do  if  I  am  not  to 
pose  for  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  made  no  reply. 

Half-way  to  the  door  she  paused,  look- 
ing back.  "Herr  Miindler  was  here  while 
you  were  out.  We  owe  him  twenty-five 
guldens.  It  was  due  the  fifth."  She  spoke 
the  words  crisply.  Her  face  gave  no  sign 
of  emotion. 

He  nodded  indifferently.   "I  know.  I 

[212] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


shall  see  him."  The  soft  whistle  was  re- 
sumed. 

"There  is  a  note  from  the  Rath,  re- 
fusing you  the  pension  again."  She  drew 
a  paper  from  the  work-box  in  her  hand 
and  held  it  toward  him. 

He  turned  half  about  in  •  his  chair. 
''Don't  worry,  Agnes,"  he  said.  The  tone 
was  pleading.  He  did  not  look  at  the 
paper  or  offer  to  take  it.  His  eyes  re- 
turned to  the  easel.  A  gentle  light  filled 
them. 

She  dropped  the  paper  into  the  box,  a 
smile  on  her  lips,  and  moved  toward  the 
easel.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  looking 
from  the  pictured  face  of  the  Christ  to 
the  glowing  face  above  it.  Then  she 
turned  again  to  the  door.  "It's  very 
convenient  to  be  your  own  model,"  she 
said  with  a  laugh.  The  door  clicked  be- 
hind her. 

[213  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


He  sat  motionless,  the  grave,  earnest 
eyes  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the  picture. 
Now  and  then  he  stirred  vaguely.  But 
he  did  not  lift  his  hand  or  touch  the 
brushes  beside  it.  Gazing  at  each  other, 
in  the  fading  light  of  the  low  window, 
the  two  faces  were  curiously  alike.  There 
was  the  same  delicate  modelling  of  lines, 
the  same  breadth  between  the  eyes,  the 
long,  flowing  locks,  the  full,  sensitive 
lips,  and  in  the  eyes  the  same  look  of 
deep  melancholy — touched  with  a  subtle, 
changing,  human  smile  that  drew  the 
beholder.  It  disarmed  criticism  and  pro- 
voked it.  Except  for  the  halo  of  mocking 
and  piercing  thorns,  the  living  face  might 
have  been  the  pictured  one  below  it. 
The  look  of  suffering  in  one  was  shadowed 
in  the  other. 

There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door  and 
it  flew  open. 

[214  I 


The  Lost  Monogram 


The  painter  looked  up  quickly.  The 
tense,  earnest  gaze  broke  into  a  sunny 
smile.  **Pirkheimer !"  He  sprang  to  his 
feet.  ''What  now?" 

The  other  man  came  leisurely  across 
the  room,  his  eyes  on  the  easel.  He  nodded 
toward  it  approvingly. 

"Wanted  to  see  it,"  he  said.  His  eyes 
studied  the  picture.  ''I  got  to  thinking 
it  over  after  you  left  me — I  was  afraid 
you  might  touch  it  up  and  spoil  it — I 
want  it  just  as  it  is."  His  eyes  sought 
his  companion's  face. 

The  painter  shook  his  head.  "I  don't 
know — not  yet — you  must  leave  it  with 
me.  It's  yours.  You  shall  have  it — when 
it's  done." 

''It's  done  now,"  said  the  other 
brusquely.  "Here — sign."  He  picked  up 
a  brush,  and,  dipping  it  into  a  soft  color 
on  the  palette,  handed  it  to  the  painter. 

[2IS] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


He  took  it  doubtfully  between  his 
fingers,  his  eyes  on  the  face.  Slowly  his 
hand  moved  toward  the  canvas.  It  traced 
rapidly,  below  the  flowing  locks,  a  huge, 
uncouth  A;  then,  more  slowly,  within 
the  sprawling  legs  of  the  A,  a  shadowy 
D;  and  finally,  at  the  top,  above  them 
both,  in  tiny  figures,  a  date — 1503.  The 
brush  dropped  from  his  fingers,  and  he 
stepped  back  with  a  little  sigh. 

His  companion  reached  out  his  hand. 
"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "Fll  take  it." 

The  artist  interposed  a  hand.  "Not 
yet,"  he  said. 

"It's  mine,"  replied  the  other,  "You 
said  it." 

"Yes,  I  said  it— not  yet." 

The  other  yielded  with  a  satisfied 
smile.  His  hand  strayed  to  the  purse 
hanging  at  his  side.  "What's  to  pay? 
Tell  me." 

[216] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


The  artist  shook  his  head.  "I  would 
not  sell  it — not  even  to  you,"  he  said. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  canvas. 

"But  it's  mine!" 

"It's  yours — for  friendship's  sake.'* 

The  young  man  nodded  contentedly. 
Then  a  thought  struck  across  his  face. 
You'll  tell  Agnes  that  ?"  he  said  quickly. 
Ay,  I'll  tell  Agnes — that  it's  yours. 
But  not  what  you  paid  for  it,"  added  the 
painter  thoughtfully. 

"No,  no,  don't  tell  her  that."  The 
young  man  spoke  quickly.  His  tone  was 
half  jesting,  half  earnest.  He  stood  look- 
ing at  the  two  faces,  glancing  from  one 
to  the  other  with  a  look  of  baffled  re- 
sentment. "A  living  shame!"  he  mut- 
tered under  his  breath. 

The  artist  looked  up  quickly.  "What  V* 

"Nothing."  The  young  man  moved 
vaguely  about  the  room.  "  I  wish  to  God, 

[217] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Diirer,  you  had  a  free  hand!''  he  broke 
out. 

The  artist  glanced  inquiry.  He  held  up 
his  hand,  moving  the  supple  fingers  with 
a  little  gesture  of  pride.  "Isn't  it?"  he 
demanded,  smiling. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  His 
round  face  retained  its  look  of  dissent. 
"Marriage — for  a  man  like  you !  Two 
hundred  florins — for  dowry !"  He  laughed 
scornfully. 

His  companion's  face  flushed.  A  swift 
look  came  into  the  eyes. 

The  other  held  out  a  deprecating  hand. 
"I  didn't  mean  it,"  he  said.  "Don't  be 
angry." 

The  flush  faded.  The  artist  turned  to 
the  easel,  taking  up  a  brush,  as  if  to  seek 
in  work  a  vent  for  his  disturbed  thought. 

"You'll  spoil  it!"  said  Pirkheimer 
quickly. 

[218] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


"I  shall  finish  it/'  repHed  Diirer,  with- 
out looking  up. 

The  other  moved  restlessly  about. 
"Well  ...  I  must  go.  Good-by,  Diirer." 
He  came  and  stood  by  the  easel,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

The  artist  rose,  the  warm  smile  on  his 
lips  bathing  his  face.  "Good-by,  my 
friend."  He  held  out  his  hand  frankly. 

Pirkheimer  caught  it  in  his.  "We're 
friends  V  he  said. 

"Always." 

"And  you  will  never  want — if  I  can 
help  you." 

"Never!"  The  tone  was  hearty  and 
proud. 

Pirkheimer  turned  away  with  a  look 
of  contentment.  "I  shall  hold  you  to 
it,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  promise." 

"I  shall  hold  you  to  it,"  laughed 
Diirer. 

[219] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


When  the  door  had  closed,  he  stood 
looking  down  at  the  picture.  He  moved 
once  or  twice  across  the  room.  Then  he 
stopped  before  a  little  brazier,  looking  at 
it  hesitatingly.  He  bent  over  and  lighted 
the  coals  in  the  basin.  He  blew  them 
with  a  tiny  bellows  till  they  glowed. 
Then  he  placed  a  pan  above  them  and 
threw  into  it  lumps  of  brownish  stuff. 
When  the  mixture  was  melted,  he  car- 
ried it  across  to  the  easel  and  dipped  a 
large  brush  into  it  thoughtfully.  He  drew 
it  across  the  canvas.  The  track  behind 
it  glowed  and  deepened  in  the  dim  light. 
Slowly  the  picture  mellowed  under  it. 
A  look  of  sweet  satisfaction  hovered 
about  the  artist's  lips  as  he  worked.  The 
liquid  in  the  pan  lessened  and  his  brush 
moved  more  slowly.  The  mixture  had 
deepened  in  tint  and  thickened.  Wherever 
the  brush  rested  a  deep,  luminous  color 

[  220  ] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


sprang  to  meet  it.  It  moved  swiftly  across 
the  monogram — and  paused.  The  artist 
peered  forward  uncertainly.  The  letters 
lay  erased  in  the  dim  light.  With  another 
stroke  of  the  brush — and  another — they 
were  gone  forever. 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  deepened  on 
his  lips.  It  was  not  conceit,  nor  humility, 
nor  pride.  One  could  not  have  named 
the  sweetness  that  hovered  in  it — haunt- 
ingly. 

He  laid  down  the  brush  with  a  quick 
breath  and  sat  gazing  at  the  picture.  It 
returned  the  gentle,  inevitable  look.  He 
raised  a  finger  to  the  portrait,  speaking 
softly.  "It  is  Albrecht  Diirer — his  work," 
he  said  under  his  breath.  ''None  but  a 
fool  can  mistake  it.  It  shall  speak  for 
him  forever." 


[221] 


II 


F 


OR  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  picture 
had  rested,  face  to  the  wall,  on  the  floor 
of  the  small,  dark  studio.  Pirkheimer 
had  demanded  his  treasure — sometimes 
with  jests,  and  sometimes  with  threats. 
But  the  picture  had  remained  unmoved 
against  the  wall. 

Journeys  to  Italy  and  to  the  Nether- 
lands had  intervened.  Pirkheimer's  vel- 
vet purse  had  been  dipped  into  again 
and  again.  Commissions  without  num- 
ber had  been  executed  for  him — rings 
and  stones  and  tapestries,  carvings  and 
stag-antlers,  and  cups  and  silks  and  vel- 
vet— till  the  Pirkheimer  mansion  glowed 
with  color  from  the  South  and  delicate 
workmanship  from  the  North.  Other  pic- 
tures from  Diirer's  brush  adorned  its 
walls — grotesque  monks  and  gentle  Vir- 

[  222  ] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


gins.  But  the  Face  bided  its  time  against 
the  wall. 

To-day — for  the  first  time  in  twenty- 
five  years — the  Face  of  the  Christ  was 
turned  to  the  light.  The  hand  that  drew 
it  from  its  place  had  not  the  supple 
fingers  of  the  painter.  Those  fingers, 
stiffened  and  white,  lay  upon  a  quiet 
breast — outside  the  city  wall. 

The  funeral  cortege  had  trotted  briskly 
back,  and  Agnes  Diirer  had  come  di- 
rectly to  the  studio,  with  its  low,  arched 
window,  to  take  account  of  her  posses- 
sions. It  was  all  hers — the  money  the 
artist  had  toiled  to  leave  her,  the  work 
that  had  shortened  life,  and  the  thousand 
Rhenish  guldens  in  the  hands  of  the 
most  worthy  Rath;  the  pictures  and 
copperplates,  the  books  he  had  written 
and  the  quaint  curios  he  had  loved — 
they  were  all  hers,  except,  perhaps,  the 

[223  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


copperplates  for  Andreas.  Her  level  glance 
swept  them  as  she  crossed  to  the  canvas 
against  the  wall  and  lifted  it  to  a  place 
on  the  easel.  She  had  often  begged  him 
to  sell  the  picture.  It  was  large  and 
would  bring  a  good  price.  Her  eyes  sur- 
veyed it  with  satisfaction.  A  look  of  dis- 
may crossed  the  smooth  face.  She  leaned 
forward  and  searched  the  picture  eagerly. 
The  dismay  deepened  to  anger.  He  had 
neglected  to  sign  it !  She  knew  well  the 
value  of  the  tiny  monogram  that  marked 
the  canvases  about  her.  A  sound  clicked 
in  her  throat.  She  reached  out  her  white 
hand  to  a  brush  on  the  bench  beside  her. 
There  would  be  no  wrong  done.  It  was 
Albrecht's  work — his  best  work.  Her  eyes 
studied  the  modelling  of  the  delicate, 
strong  face — the  Christ  face — Albrecht's 
face — at  thirty-three.  .  .  .  Had  he  looked 
like  that  ?  She  stared  at  it  vaguely.  She 

[  224  ] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


moved  away,  looking  about  her  for  a  bit 
of  color.  She  found  it  and  came  again  to 
the  easel.  She  reached  out  her  hand  for 
the  brush.  A  slip  of  paper  tucked  be- 
neath the  canvas  caught  her  eye.  She 
drew  it  out  slowly,  unfolding  it  with 
curious  fingers.  "This  picture  of  the 
Christ  is  the  sole  property  of  my  dear 
and  honored  friend,  the  Herr  Willibald 
Pirkheimer.  I  have  given  it  to  him  and 
his  heirs  to  have  and  to  hold  forever. 
Signed  by  me,  this  day,  June  8,  1503,  in 
my  home  in  Niirnberg,  15  Zisselstrasse, 
Albrecht  Diirer.'' 

She  crushed  the  paper  in  firm  fingers. 
A  door  had  opened  behind  her.  The  dis- 
creet servant,  in  mourning  garments, 
with  downcast,  reddened  eyes,  waited. 
''His  Highness  the  Herr  Pirkheimer  is 
below,  my  lady." 

For   a   moment   she   hesitated.    Then 

[  225  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


her  fingers  opened  on  the  bit  of  paper. 
It  fluttered  to  the  table  and  lay  full  in 
sight.  She  looked  at  it  with  her  thin 
smile.  "Ask  Herr  Pirkheimer  to  ascend 
to  the  studio.  I  shall  receive  him  here," 
she  said. 

He  entered  facing  the  easel.  With  an 
exclamation  he  sprang  forward.  He  laid 
a  hand  on  the  canvas.  The  small  eyes 
blinked  at  her. 

She  returned  the  look  coldly. 

"It  is  mine !''  he  said. 

She  inclined  her  head,  with  a  stately 
gesture,  to  the  open  paper  on  the  table 
beside  her. 

He  seized  it  in  trembling  fingers.  He 
shook  it  toward  her.  "It  is  mine.  You 
see — it  is  mine  !" 

"It  is  yours,  Herr  Pirkheimer."  She 
spoke  with  level  coolness.  "I  had  read 
the  paper." 

[226] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


With  a  grunt  of  satisfaction,  he  turned 
again  to  the  canvas.  A  smothered  oath 
broke  from  his  Hps.  He  leaned  forward, 
incredulous.  His  round  eyes,  bulging  and 
blue,  searched  every  corner.  They  fell 
on  the  wet  brush  and  bit  of  color.  He 
turned  on  her  fiercely.  "Jezebel!"  he 
hissed,  *'you  have  painted  it  out.  I  saw 
him  sign  it — years  ago — twenty-five 
years!" 

She  smiled  serenely.  "It  may  have 
been  some  other  one,"  she  said  sweetly. 
Her  glance  took  in  the  scattered  can- 
vases. 

He  shook  his  head  savagely.  "I  will 
have  no  other,"  he  shouted;  "I  should 
know  it  in  a  thousand!" 

"Very  well."  Her  voice  was  as  tran- 
quil as  her  face.  "Shall  I  have  it  sent  to 
the  house  of  the  honored  Herr  Pirk- 
heimer  ?" 

[227] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


He  glared  at  her.  "I  take  it  with  me," 
he  said.  "I  do  not  trust  it  out  of  sight/' 

She  bowed  in  acquiescence.  Standing 
in  her  widow's  garments,  with  downcast 
eyes  and  gentle  resignation,  she  waited 
his  withdrawal. 

He  eyed  her  curiously.  The  years  had 
touched  her  lightly.  There  were  the  same 
plump  features,  the  same  surface  eyes, 
and  light,  abundant  bands  of  hair.  He 
heaved  a  round  sigh.  He  thought  of  the 
worn  face  outside  the  city  wall.  He 
gathered  the  canvas  under  his  arm,  glar- 
ing about  the  low  room.  *' There  was  a 
pair  of  antlers,"  he  muttered.  "They 
might  go  in  my  collection.  You  will  want 
to  sell  them." 

The  downcast  eyes  did  not  leave  the 
floor.  "They  are  sold,"  she  said,  "to 
Herr  Umstatter."  A  little  smile  played 
about  the  thin  lips. 

[228] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


"Sold!  Already!'*  The  round  eyes 
bulged  at  her.  "My  God!''  he  shouted 
fiercely,  "you  would  sell  his  very  soul,  if 
he  had  left  it  where  you  could !" 

She  raised  the  blue  eyes  and  regarded 
him  calmly.  "The  estate  is  without  con- 
dition," she  said. 

He  groaned  as  he  backed  toward  the 
door.  The  canvas  was  hugged  under  his 
arm.  At  the  door  he  paused,  looking 
back  over  the  room.  His  small  eyes 
winked  fast,  and  the  loose  mouth  trem- 
bled. 

"He  was  a  great  man,  Agnes,"  he 
said  gently.  "We  must  keep  it  clean — 
the  name  of  Diirer." 

She  looked  up  with  a  little  gesture  of 
dismissal.  "It  is  I  who  bear  the  name," 
she  said  coldly. 

When  he  was  gone  she  glanced  about 
the  room.   She  went  over  to  a  pile  of 

[229] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


canvases  and  turned  them  rapidly  to  the 
light.  Each  one  that  bore  the  significant 
monogram  she  set  aside  with  a  look  of 
possession.  She  came  at  last  to  the  one 
she  was  searching.  It  was  a  small  canvas 
— a  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  She  studied 
the  details  slowly.  It  was  not  signed. 
She  gave  a  little  breath  of  satisfaction, 
and  took  up  the  brush  from  the  bench. 
She  remembered  well  the  day  Albrecht 
brought  it  home,  and  his  childish  delight 
in  it.  It  was  one  of  Joachim  Patenir's. 
Albrecht  had  given  a  Christ  head  of  his 
own  in  exchange  for  it.  The  brush  in  her 
fingers  trembled  a  little.  It  inserted  the 
wide-spreading  A  beneath  Lot's  flying 
legs,  and  overtraced  it  with  a  delicate 
D.  She  paused  a  moment  in  thought. 
Then  she  raised  her  head  and  painted 
in,  with  swift,  decisive  strokes,  high  up 
in  one  corner  of  the  picture,  a  date.  It 

[230] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


was  a  safe  date — 15  ii — the  year  he 
painted  his  Holy  Trinity.  There  would 
be  no  one  to  question  it. 

She  sat  back,  looking  her  satisfaction. 

Seventy-five  guldens  to  account.  It 
atoned  a  little  for  the  loss  of  the  Christ. 


[231  ] 


III 

1  HE  large  drawing-room  was  vacant. 
The  blinds  had  been  drawn  to  shut  out 
the  glare,  and  a  soft  coolness  filled  the 
room.  In  the  dim  light  of  half-opened 
shutters  the  massive  furniture  loomed 
large  and  dark,  and  from  the  wall  huge 
paintings  looked  down  mistily.  Gilt  frames 
gleamed  vaguely  in  the  cool  gloom.  Above 
the  fireplace  hung  a  large  canvas,  and 
out  of  its  depths  sombre,  waiting  eyes 
looked  down  upon  the  vacant  room. 

The  door  opened.  An  old  woman  had 
entered.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  stout 
cane.  She  walked  stiffly  across  to  the 
window  and  threw  back  a  shutter.  The 
window  opened  into  the  soft  greenness 
of  a  Munich  garden.  She  stood  for  a 
minute  looking  into  it.  Then  she  came 
over  to  the  fireplace  and  looked  up  to 

[232] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


the  pictured  face.  Her  head  nodded 
slowly. 

"It  must  be,"  she  muttered,  "it  must 
be.  No  one  else  could  have  done  it.  But 
four  hundred  years  !" — she  sighed  softly. 
"Who  can  tell.?" 

Her  glance  wandered  with  a  dissatis- 
fied air  to  the  other  canvases.  "I  would 
give  them  all — all  of  them — twice  over 
— to  know — "  She  spoke  under  her 
breath  as  she  hobbled  stiffly  to  a  huge 
chair. 

The  door  swung  softly  back  and  forth 
behind  a  young  girl  who  had  entered. 
She  came  in  lightly,  looking  down  at  a 
packet  of  papers  in  her  hand. 

The  old  woman  started  forward. 

"What  have  ye  found.?"  she  de- 
manded. She  was  leaning  on  the  stout 
cane.  She  peered  out  of  her  cavernous 
eyes. 

[233] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  girl  crossed  to  the  window  and 
seated  herself  in  the  green  light.  Shad- 
ows of  a  climbing  vine  fell  on  her  hair 
and  shoulders  as  she  bent  over  the 
papers  in  her  hand.  She  opened  one  of 
them  and  ran  her  eye  over  it  before  she 
spoke. 

"They  were  in  the  north  room,"  she 
said  slowly.  "In  the  big  escritoire — that 
big,  clumsy  one —  I've  looked  there  be- 
fore, but  I  never  found  them.  I've  been 
trying  all  day  to  make  them  out." 

"What  are  they.^"  demanded  the  old 
woman. 

"Papers,  grandmamma,"  returned  the 
girl  absently;  "letters  and  a  sort  of  jour- 
nal." Her  eyes  were  on  the  closely  writ- 
ten page. 

"Read  it,"  said  the  old  woman  sharply. 

"I  can't  read  it,  grandmamma."  She 
shook  back  the  soft  curls  with  a  little 

[234] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


sigh.  "It's  queer  and  old,  and  funny — 
some  of  the  words.  And  the  writing  is 
blurred  and  yellow.  Look."  She  held 
up  the  open  sheet. 

The  keen  old  eyes  darted  at  it.  "Work 
on  it,"  she  said  brusquely. 

"I  have,  grandmamma." 

"Well— what  did  ye  find.?" 


"It's  a  man— Will— Willi"— she  turned 
to  the  bottom  of  the  last  page — "Willi- 
bald !  That's  it."  She  laughed  softly. 
"Willibald  Pirkheimer.  Who  was  he?" 
she  asked. 

"One  of  your  ancestors."  The  old 
mouth  waited  grimly. 

"One  of  mamma's  ?" 

"Your  father's." 

A 

"He  must  have  been  a  nice  man," 
said  the  girl  slowly.  "But  some  of  it  is 
rather — queer." 

The  old  woman  leaned  forward  with 

[235] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


a  quick  gesture.  She  straightened  her- 
self. "Nonsense!"  she  muttered.  ''Read 
it,"  she  said  aloud. 

"This  is  written  to  Albrecht  Diirer/' 
said  the  girl,  studying  it,  "in  Italy." 

The  old  woman  reached  out  a  knotted 
hand.  "Give  it  to  me,"  she  said. 

The  girl  came  across  and  laid  it  in  her 
hand.  The  knotted  fingers  smoothed  it. 
The  old  eyes  were  on  the  picture  above 
the  mantel.  "Will  it  tell  ?"  she  muttered. 

"There  are  others,  grandmamma." 
The  girl  held  up  the  packet  in  her  hand. 

"What  have  ye  made  out.^"  The  old 
hand  closed  upon  them. 

"He  was  Diirer's  friend,"  said  the  girl. 
"There  are  letters  to  him — five  or  six. 
And  he  tells  about  a  picture — in  the 
journal — a  picture  Albrecht  Diirer  gave 
to  him."  She  glanced  down  at  the  wrin- 
kled, working  face.   "It  was  unsigned, 

[236] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


grandmamma — and  it  was  the  head  of 
the  Saviour." 

The  old  woman^s  throat  moved  loosely. 
Her  hands  grasped  the  stout  cane. 

With  a  half  sigh,  she  rose  to  her  feet 
and  tottered  across  the  room.  "Fool — 
fool — "  she  muttered,  looking  up  to  the 
mystical,  waiting  face.  "To  leave  no 
mark — no  sign — but  that!"  She  shook 
the  yellow  papers  in  her  hand. 

A  question  shot  into  the  old  eyes.  She 
held  out  the  papers. 

"What  was  it  dated,  Marie.? — that 
place  in  the  journal — look  and  see." 

The  girl  took  the  papers  and  moved 
again  to  the  window.  She  opened  one 
and  smoothed  it  thoughtfully,  run- 
ning her  eye  along  the  page.  She  shook 
her  head  slowly.  "There  is  no  date, 
grandmamma,"  she  said.  "But  it  must 
be   after   Diirer's   death.    He   speaks  of 

[237] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Frau  Diirer" — a  smile  shaded  her  Hps — 
*'he  doesn't  like  her  very  well,  I  think. 
When  did  Diirer  die,  grandmamma?'' 
She  looked  up  from  the  paper. 

"April  6,  1528,"  said  the  old  woman 
promptly. 

The  girl's  eyes  grew  round  and  misty. 
"Four  hundred  years  ago — almost,"  she 
murmured  softly.  She  looked  down,  a 
little  awed,  at  the  paper  in  her  hand. 

"It  is  very  old,"  she  said. 

The  old  woman  nodded  sharply.  Her 
eyes  were  on  the  papers.  "Take  good 
care  of  them,"  she  croaked;  "they  may 
tell  it  to  us  yet." 

She  straightened  her  bent  figure  and 
glanced  toward  the  door. 

A  wooden  butler  was  bowing  him- 
self to  the  floor.  "The  Herr  Professor 
Doctor  Polonius  Holtzenschuer,"  he  an- 
nounced grandly. 

A  dapper  young  man  with  trim  mus- 

[238] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


taches  and  spotless  boots  advanced  into 
the  room. 

The  girl  by  the  window  swayed  a 
breath.  The  clear  color  had  mounted  in 
her  cheek. 

The  old  woman  waited,  immovable. 
Her  hands  were  clasped  above  the  stout 
cane  and  her  bead-like  eyes  surveyed 
the  advancing  figure. 

At  two  yards'  distance  it  paused.  The 
heels  came  together  with  a  swift  click. 
He  bowed  in  military  salute. 

The  old  woman  achieved  a  stiflF  cour- 
tesy and  waited.  The  dim  eyes  peered  at 
him  shrewdly. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  pay  my  respects 
to  the  Baroness  von  Herkomer,"  said 
the  young  man,  with  deep  politeness. 

The  baroness  assented  gruffly.  She 
seated  herself  on  a  large  divan,  facing 
the  picture,  and  motioned  with  her 
knotted  hand  to  the  seat  beside  hen 

[239] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  young  man  accepted  it  deferen- 
tially. His  eyes  were  on  a  bowed  head, 
framed  in  shadows  and  leaves  across  the 
room. 

"I  trust  Fraulein  Marie  is  well.?"  he 
said  promptly. 

"Marie " 

The  girl  started  vaguely. 

"Come  and  greet  the  Herr  Doctor 
Holtzenschuer." 

She  rose  lightly  from  her  place  and 
came  across  the  room.  A  soft  curl,  blown 
by  the  wind,  drifted  across  her  flushes 
as  she  came. 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 
His  heels  clicked  again  as  he  bent  low 
before  her. 

She  descended  in  a  shy  courtesy  and 
glanced  inquiringly  at  her  grandmother. 

The  old  woman  nodded  curtly.  "Go 
on  with  your  papers,''  she  said. 

[240] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


The  girl  turned  again  to  the  green  win- 
dow. Her  head  bowed  itself  above  the 
papers. 

The  young  man's  eyes  followed  them. 
He  turned  to  the  old  woman  beside  him. 
"Is  it  something  about — the  picture?" 
he  asked. 

She  nodded  sharply.  "Private  papers 
of  Willibald  Pirkheimer/'  she  said,  "an- 
cestor of  the  von  Herkomers — sixteenth 
century.  He  was  a  friend  of  Diirer's." 
Her  lips  closed  crisply  on  the  words. 

He  looked  at  her,  a  smile  under  the 
trim  mustaches.  "You  hope  they  will 
furnish  a  clew?"  he  asked  tolerantly. 

She  made  no  reply.  Her  wrinkled  face 
was  raised  to  the  picture. 

"You  have  one  Diirer."  He  motioned 
toward  a  small  canvas.  "Is  it  not 
enough  ?" 

Her  eyes  turned  to  it  and  flashed  in 

[241  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


disdain.  "The  Sodom  and  Gomorrah!" 
She  spoke  scornfully.  "Not  so  much  as 
a  copy !" 

/'It  is  signed." 

She  glanced  at  it  again.  There  was 
shrewd  intolerance  in  the  old  eyes.  "Do 
you  think  I  cannot  tell  ?"  she  said  grimly. 
"I  know  the  work  of  Albrecht  Diirer, 
length  and  breadth,  line  for  line.  You 
say  he  painted  that!"  She  pointed  a 
swift  finger  at  the  picture  across  the 
room.  "Have  ye  looked  at  Lot's  legs.?" 
Her  laugh  cackled  softly. 

The  young  man  smiled  under  his  mus- 
taches. 

The  baroness  had  turned  again  to  the 
picture  over  the  fireplace.  "But  that — " 
she  murmured  softly.  "It  is  signed  in 
every  line — in  the  eyes,  in  the  painting 
of  the  hair,  in  the  sweep  from  brow  to 
chin.  It  will  yet  be  found,"  she  said 
under  her  breath.  "It  shall  be  found." 

[  242  ] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


He  looked  at  her,  smiling.  Then  he 
raised  his  eyes  politely  to  the  picture.  A 
slow  look  formed  behind  the  smile.  He 
half  started,  gazing  intently  at  the  deep, 
painted  canvas.  His  glance  strayed  for 
a  second  to  the  green  window,  and  back 
again  to  the  picture. 

The  old  baroness  roused  herself  with 
a  sigh.  She  turned  toward  him.  "Your 
dissertation  has  brought  you  honor,  they 
tell  me,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  criti- 
cally. 

He  acknowledged  the  remark  with  a 
bow.  "It  is  nothing,"  he  replied  indiffer- 
ently. "Only  a  step  toward  molecules 
and  atoms." 

The  baroness  smiled  grimly.  "I  don't 
understand  chemical  jargon."  Her  tone 
was  dry.  "I  understand  you  are  going 
to  be  famous." 

The  young  man  bowed  again  ab- 
sently. He  glanced  casually  at  the  pic- 

[243  ] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


ture  above  the  fireplace.  "What  would 
you  give  to  know" — he  nodded  toward 
it — "that  it  is  a  genuine  Diirer?" 

The  shrewd  eyes  darted  at  him. 

The  clean-cut  face  was  compact  and 
expressionless. 

"Give!  I  would  give" — her  eye  swept 
the  apartment  with  its  wealth  of  canvas 
and  gilt  and  tapestry — "I  would  give 
all,  everything  in  the  room" — she  raised 
a  knotted  hand  toward  the  picture — 
"to  know  that  Albrecht  Diirer's  mono- 
gram belongs  there."  The  pointing  finger 
trembled  a  little. 

He  looked  at  it  reflectively.  Then  his 
glance  travelled  about  the  great  room. 
"Everything  in  this  room,"  he  said 
slowly.  "That  means — "  He  paused, 
glancing  toward  the  window. 

The  young  girl  had  left  her  seat.  The 
papers  had  dropped  to  the  floor.  She  was 

[244] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


leaning  from  the  casement  to  pick  a 
white  rose  that  swayed  and  nodded,  out 
of  reach. 

He  waited  a  breath.  Her  fingers  closed 
on  it  and  she  sank  back  in  her  chair, 
smihng,  the  rose  against  her  cheek. 

The  eyes  watching  her  glowed  softly. 
"Everything  in  this  room — "  He  spoke 
very  low.  "The  one  with  the  rose?'* 

The  old  face  turned  to  him  with  a 
look.  The  heavy  jaw  dropped  and  forgot 
to  close.  The  keen  eyes  scanned  his  face. 
The  jaws  came  together  with  a  snap. 
She  nodded  to  him  shrewdly. 

The  young  man  rose  to  his  feet.  The 
cynical  smile  had  left  his  face.  It  was  in- 
tent and  earnest.  He  looked  up  for  a 
moment  to  the  picture,  and  then  down 
at  the  wrinkled,  eager  face. 

"To-morrow,  at  this  time,  you  shall 
know,"  he  said  gravely. 

[24s] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


The  old  eyes  followed  him,  half  in 
doubt,  half  in  hope.  They  pierced  the 
heavy  door  as  it  swung  shut  behind 
him. 

.  The  stiff,   dapper  figure  had   crossed 
the  hall.  The  outer  door  clanged. 

Against  the  green  window,  within,  the 
soft  curls  and  gentle,  questioning  eyes 
of  the  Fraulein  Marie  waited.  As  the 
door  clanged,  a  rose  was  laid  lightly  to 
her  lips  and  dropped  softly  into  the 
greenness  below. 


[246] 


IV 

XxT  a  quarter  to  ten  the  next  morning 
a  closed  carriage  drew  up  before  the 
heavy  gate.  A  dapper  figure  pushed  open 
the  door  and  leaped  out.  It  entered  the 
big  gateway,  crossed  a  green  garden  and 
was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the 
Baroness  von  Herkomer. 

She  stood  beneath  the  picture,  her 
eyebrows  bent,  her  Hps  drawn,  and  her 
hands  resting  on  the  stout  cane. 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  he  asked 
deferentially. 

"Whereto.?" 

He  hesitated.  "You  will  see.  I  cannot 
tell  you — now.  But  I  need  you — with 
the  picture."  He  motioned  toward  it. 

She  eyed  him  grimly  for  a  second. 
Then  she  touched  a  bell. 

The  wooden  butler  appeared.  "Send 
Wilhelm,"  she  commanded. 

[247] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


Half  an  hour  later  the  Herr  Doctor 
Holtzenschuer  was  handing  a  bundled 
figure  into  the  closed  carriage  that  stood 
before  the  gate.  A  huge,  oblong  package 
rested  against  a  lamp-post  beside  him, 
and  near  it  stood  the  Fraulein  Marie, 
rosy  and  shy.  The  young  man  turned  to 
her  with  a  swift  gesture. 

"Come,"  he  said. 

He  placed  her  beside  her  grandmother, 
and  watched  carefully  while  the  heavy 
parcel  was  lifted  to  the  top  of  the  car- 
riage. With  an  injunction  to  the  driver 
for  its  safety,  he  turned  to  spring  into 
the  carriage. 

The  voice  of  the  baroness,  from  muf- 
fled folds,  arrested  him. 

"You  will  ride  outside  with  the  pic- 
ture," it  said.  "I  do  not  trust  it  to  a 
river. 

With  a  bow  he  slammed  the  carriage 

[248] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


door  and  mounted  the  box.  In  another 
minute  the  Herr  Professor  Doctor  Holtz- 
enschuer  was  driving  rapidly  through 
the  streets  of  Munich,  on  the  outside  of 
a  common  hack,  a  clumsy  parcel  bal- 
anced awkwardly  on  his  stiff  shoulders. 

From  the  windows  below,  on  either 
side,  a  face  looked  out  upon  the  flying 
streets — a  fairy  with  gentle  eyes  and  a 
crone  with  toothless  smile. 

"The  Pinakothek!''  grumbled  the  old 
woman.  "Does  he  think  any  one  at  the 
Pinakothek  knows  more  of  Albrecht 
Diirer  than  Henriette  von  Herkomer?" 
She  sniffed  a  little  and  drew  her  folds 
about  her. 

Past  the  Old  Pinakothek  rolled  the  fly- 
ing carriage — on  past  the  New  Pina- 
kothek. An  old  face  peered  out  upon  the 
marble  walls,  wistful  and  suspicious.  A 
mass  of  buildings  loomed  in  view. 

[249] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"The  university,"  she  muttered  under 
her  breath.  "Some  upstart  Herr  Pro- 
fessor— to  tell  me  of  Albrecht  Diirer ! 
Fool — fool!"  She  croaked  softly  in  her 
throat. 

"The  Herr  Doctor  is  a  learned  man, 
grandmamma — and  a  gentleman!"  said 
a  soft  voice  beside  her. 

"A  gentleman  can  be  a  fool!"  returned 
the  old  woman  tartly.  "What  building 
is  this.?" 

The  carriage  had  stopped  before  a  low, 
square  doorway. 

"It  is  the  chemistry  laboratory,  grand- 
mamma," said  the  girl  timidly. 

The  old  woman  leaned  forward,  gray 
with  rage,  pulling  at  the  closed  door. 
"Chemistry  lab — "  Her  breath  came  in 
pants.  "He  will — destroy — burn — melt 
it!"  Four  men  lifted  down  the  huge 
parcel    from    the    carriage    and   turned 

[250] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


toward  the  stone  door.  "Stop!''  she 
gestured  wildly  to  them. 

The  door  flew  open.  The  young  scien- 
tist stood  before  her,  bowing  and  smiHng. 
She  shook  a  knotted  finger  at  him.  ''Stop 
those  men!"  she  cried  sternly. 

At  a  gesture  the  men  waited.  She  de- 
scended from  the  carriage,  shaking  and 
suspicious,  her  cane  tapping  the  pave- 
ment before  her.  The  Fraulein  Marie 
leaped  lightly  down  after  her.  Her  hand 
had  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  young 
man's  sleeve.  A  white  rose  trembled  in 
the  fingers.  His  face  glowed. 

"Is  your  Highness  ready  .^"  he  asked. 
He  had  moved  to  the  old  woman's  side. 

She  was  standing,  one  hand  on  the 
wrapped  parcel,  the  other  on  her  stout 
cane,  peering  suspiciously  ahead. 

"Is  your  Highness  ready?"  he  re- 
peated. 

[2SI] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


"Go  on,"  she  said  briefly. 

Four  men  were  in  the  hall  when  they 
entered — the  director  of  the  Old  Pina- 
kothek,  the  artist  Adrian  Kauffmann,  the 
president  of  the  university,  and  a  young 
man  with  a  scared,  helpful  face,  who 
proved  to  be  a  laboratory  assistant. 

''They  are  your  witnesses,''  murmured 
the  young  man  in  her  ear. 

She  greeted  them  stiffly,  her  eyes  on 
the  precious  parcel.  Swiftly  the  wrap- 
pings were  undone,  and  the  picture  lifted 
to  a  huge  easel  across  the  room.  The 
light  fell  full  upon  it. 

The  witnesses  moved  forward  in  a 
body,  silent.  The  old  face  watching  them 
relaxed.  She  smiled  grimly. 

"Is  it  a  Diirer.?"  she  demanded.  She 
was  standing  behind  them. 

They  started,  looking  at  her  doubt- 
fully. The  artist  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

[252] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


He  stepped  back  a  little.  The  director 
shook  his  head  with  a  sigh.  "Who  can 
tell  V  he  said  softly.  "The  marks — 


>> 


The  baroness's  eyes  glowed  danger- 
ously. "I  did  not  suppose  you  could 
tell/'  she  said  curtly. 

The  young  scientist  interposed.  "It 
is  a  case  for  science,"  he  said  quickly. 
"You  shall  see — the  Roentgen  rays  will 
tell.  The  shutters — Berthold.*' 

The  assistant  closed  them,  one  by  one, 
the  heavy  wooden  shutters.  A  last  block 
of  light  rested  on  the  shadowy  picture. 
A  last  shutter  swung  into  place.  They 
waited — in  darkness.  Some  one  breathed 
quickly,  with  soft,  panting  breath. 
Slowly  a  light  emerged  through  the  dark. 
The  great  picture  gathered  to  itself 
shape,  and  glowed.  Light  pierced  it  till 
it  shone  with  strokes  of  brushes.  Deeply 
and  slowly  in  the  bluish  patina,  at  the 

[253] 


Unfinished  Portraits 


edge  of  the  flowing  locks,  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  Christ,  a  glimmer  of  shadow 
traced  Itself,  faintly  and  unmistakably. 

Confused  murmurs  ran  through  the 
darkness — the  voice  of  the  director — a 
woman's  breath. 

"Ready,  Berthold."  It  was  the  voice 
of  the  Herr  Doctor. 

There  was  a  little  hiss,  a  blinding  flash 
of  light,  the  click  of  a  camera,  and 
blackness  again. 

A  shutter  flew  open. 

In  the  square  of  light  an  old  woman 
groped  toward  the  picture.  Her  knotted 
hands  were  lifted  to  it. 

Close  at  hand,  a  camera  tucked  under 
his  arm,  the  laboratory  assistant  stood — 


on  his  round,  practical  face  the  happy 
look  of  successful  experiment. 

A  little  distance  away  the  Herr  Pro- 
fessor Doctor  moved  quickly.  The  one 
with  the  rose  looked  up. 

[254] 


The  Lost  Monogram 


High  above  them  all — on  the  great 
easel,  struck  by  a  ray  of  light  from  the 
shutter — the  Diirer  Face  of  Sorrow — out 
of  its  four  hundred  years — looked  forth 
and  waited  in  the  modern  world. 


[2S5] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FInFoP  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE  ASSESSED   TOR    FArLUBC  T^    =„. 

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WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 

ICepoT  ™   *'°°   °^   ^"^  seventh":™ 


MAft   82  IPT? 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


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